as his friend desired, and Gabriel, in the
disguise of Mokanna, paraded the gay saloons
of Mrs. Brownlow Smith. He was curiously
inspected by many a fair damsel anxious to
pluck out the heart of his mystery, and little
Alice Taylor, actually managed to get a peep
under his veil.

"What is he like, dear?" asked Georgina
Walker, who was at her side.

"O, such a fright!" replied Alice, "he
does quite right to wear a veil."

"Spiteful creature!" muttered Gabriel,
who overheard her.

Gabriel had two objects in going to this
party. The first was, to win the affections
of Matilda Smith; the second, to ingratiate
himself with her mother. Brackley, who
had been dancing with the young lady, gave
him an opportunity. He was presented,
laughingly, as the Veiled Prophet, and left
to make his own way. A veil, like a mask,
imparts courage to the wearer, and Gabriel
said all sorts of things to Matilda; who, being
in a playful humour, was not very resentful,
and Gabriel, at the end of the dance, was in
his rival Mahmoud's seventh heaven.

"I have fixed HER, at all events!" he said,
complacently stroking his beard (the orange-
tawney having been dyed jet-black for that
occasion). "Now for mamma."

He approached Mrs. Brownlow Smith, as
she sate, a little fatigued, in a recess. He
spoke like a man of the world, with a flavour
of the lover also. He was rich, could make
a first-rate settlement, would put down
five thousand pounds, loved her daughter
to distraction, and hoped—nay, believed—
he was not indifferent to the charming
Matilda.

"But whom have I the honour of speaking
to?" asked Mrs. Brownlow Smith, as soon
as she recovered from the surprise into which
this sudden avowal had thrown her. "You
are the friend, I am aware, of Mr. George
Brackley, but I was not so fortunate as to
catch your name."

Resolved, however, to keep up the romance
of the situation, and carry out his original
intention, Gabriel evaded the question.

"We orientals," he replied, "follow our
own customs. I. will send my portrait
tomorrow, and then request permission to
declare my name and station. I am serious,
Mrs. Brownlow Smith—quite serious. Good
evening."

A word to Brackley, as he retreated
through the whirling crowd, and Mokanna
disappeared, leaving Mrs. Brownlow Smith
in that uncomfortable state of mind which
arises when you converse with a person
whom you suspect of insanity. She looked
round for Brackley to relieve her from her
perplexity; but he, too, was gone.

The breakfast-hour was late next day at
Mrs. Brownlow Smith's, and it was striking
three by the pendule on the chimney-piece—
which, though French, for a wonder went
right—when, as Matilda and her mother
were sitting tête-à-tête, a servant entered
with a letter. Mrs. Brownlow Smith had
just begun: "I have something very
extraordinary to tell you, Matilda—" when she
was interrupted in the manner described.

She looked at the seal, "G.B., doubly
interlaced. Who can this be from?"

Matilda coloured, trembled, spilt her tea,
but said nothing, while Mrs. Brownlow
Smith, intent on her letter, opened it. A
card fell out, and she read, "According to
promise." Turning the card, she beheld the
photographic miniature of a very handsome
young man.

"Why, whose likeness is this? I have
seen the face before somewhere. Do you
know, Matilda?"

Matilda looked, trembled, and blushed
more than before, and answered faintly:—

"Ye-e-s, mamma! That is to say, I think
—I don't know—I—I—"

"You think! You don't know! But I
do! It's George Brackley! His very image!
What on earth can be the reason of his
sending his picture to me? Stay! That
friend of his last night—that Turk, or
whatever he was—the man in the silver veil—I
see what it is! Matilda," she continued,
fixing a searching glance on her daughter,
and speaking very slowly, "have you engaged
yourself to George Brackley?"

"O, mamma! mamma! forgive me!" cried
Matilda, throwing herself on her knees. "I
knew nothing at all about it. George never
said he intended to tell you so soon!"

"He has told me nothing, Matilda. Get
up. But he has had an intercessor. Well!
five thousand pounds may reconcile me to
the match."

"Gracious mamma! what DO you mean?"

Hereupon, Mrs. Brownlow Smith resumed
her interrupted narrative, and, putting her
own interpretation on Gabriel Badger's
conduct, related what had taken place the
evening before. Matilda was completely
bewildered. "That Turk"—as her mother
called the Prophet—had certainly made a
kind of declaration; but, as certainly, it was
on his own account; he had never breathed
a syllable about George Brackley. This
fact, however, she kept to herself.

The days are dark in December, and the
ninth of December last past was the darkest
in the whole month: before the pendule
struck again, the lamplighter in the street
was busy at his vocation. Twilight—winter
twilight especially—is favourable to the kind
of conversation that now followed between
Mrs. Brownlow Smith and her daughter,
and as they sate in the gloaming the former
lady discussed the whole bearing of the
question that so much interested them both.
While they were thus engaged, a guest was
announced.

"Mr. Gabriel Badger," said a footman.