military school, and had there sworn that
whoever died first should appear to the
other. I used for months after his death to
awake at night with a start, expecting to see
him. His mother, a beautiful Polish lady,
called upon me in Paris, to see if I had any
memorial of her son I could give her. I had
nothing but his sword, and that she took
with thanks."

I do not know what more revelations I
might not, at the expense of my Turkish
lesson, have heard, had not at that moment
the door flown open, and Spanker entered
breathless.

"I say, old fellow!" he exclaimed,—" Beg
pardon—good evening, Monsieur Achille.
What, studying to try your memory with
those gallows difficult books shut. Come
along and take a hand at whist. There is
Driver and I, and old Duberly from Xeres:
you will just make up the contingent. Your
hour's gone, and Monsieur Achille looks as
much shut up as the books are."

So I bowed out Monsieur Achille, fixed
an hour for my next lesson, and went a
suffering victim to Spanker's whist party.

FROM FIRST TO LAST.

IN TEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

MARY was sitting at the Exhibition on a
bench in the neighbourhood of the picture, on
the watch as usual, when a little girl, elegantly
dressed, who had escaped from the hand of
an elderly one-armed gentleman, came and
perched herself beside her. There were not
many persons in the room at the time, and
the child's eyes, after roving about for some
minutes, settled on the Sybil. They opened
with surprise first, and then with delight;
and, springing from her seat, she ran back to
the gentleman, crying out, in glee, " Here
is a picture like mamma; come and look at
the picture like mamma!" She drew him
close to the place where Mary was, and held
him by the hand while he looked at the
picture. He seemed to regard it with an
interest as painful as it was profound; and
stayed before it, silent and motionless, until
a lady and gentleman appeared in the doorway
of the adjoining room. Mary
immediately recognised Lady Maxwell; and
glancing a second time at the one-armed
officer, she recollected in him Sir Everard
Maxwell. Lady Maxwell passed slowly
round from picture to picture, conversing in
an undertone with her companion, and
Mary had ample opportunities for observing
her. She was not less beautiful than
formerly; but there was an expression of
restlessness or discontent come into her face, as
if some disturbing influence were acting on
her life. Her dress and air were those of a
woman of high fashion; and the gentleman
who accompanied her, though distinguished
and handsome in his appearance, still had in
his manner a familiarity couched under his
deference, which ought to have offended her
dignity, but which was submitted to, perhaps
from mere carelessness.

When the little girl espied her mother, she
ran to her, preferring the same loud request
as she had made to Sir Everard: " Mamma,
mamma! come and look at the picture like
yourself!" and Lady Maxwell permitted
herself to be placed opposite to where the
Sybil hung. Mary saw the startled, almost
frightened, expression of countenance with
which she looked at it, and heard the sigh
with which she said, "That is more than,
mamma's possible, May; and a thousand
times more than her actual."

Sir Everard turned and looked in his wife's
face: " It is not more than you were meant
to be, Rosa," said he gently.

She took her husband's arm, and the child
in her other hand. Mary saw her countenance
as they walked away from before the
picture; and it seemed that a better spirit
had come into her heart: the old frank,
honest, kindly spirit that had given her such
a charm in her maiden days. The other
gentleman followed behind, his débonnaire,
insolent visage darkened and crest-fallen.
Rosamund's good genius walked invisible,
but her evil one was obtrusive enough. I
am afraid Mary's charity would have been
shortened, if she could have known the
thoughts smouldering in that gay gentleman's
heart just then. When they were
gone, Mary went home too, and told her
brother whom she had seen admiring his
picture. The next day it was marked, Sold,
and Sir Everard Maxwell was the purchaser.

A few days after this incident, while
Valentine was gone to negotiate the purchase
of a canvas for another ideal picture, the
dingy street resounded to as sonorous a
knock as had ever awakened its echoes in its
best days. Mary was up in the painting-
room, and her heart bounded at the noise
most pleasantly. She peeped out of the
window, and saw a carriage standing; while
the street brigands, routed from their fortress
of the door-step by the footman's toe, stood
aloof, contemplating it with admiring
wonderment. It was a generation, at least, since
a carriage had stopped at that shabby-genteel
door, or such a party entered at it. First
Sir Everard issued from the carriage, then
Lady Maxwell, gay and resplendent, and,
finally the gentleman who had been in her
company at the Exhibition. The imperative,
fashionable knock had brought Mrs. Bilton
to the door in such a state of nervous flurry,
that she let them all come in, and preceded
them up the leaded staircase, striving vainly
with a very grimy hand to conceal the
discrepancies of her gown behind. From its
approaches, Valentine Unwin's studio might
have been expected to exhibit the most sordid
appearance; but it did not do so, thanks to
Mary's thrift and care; and the visitors were
agreeably surprised, on entering it, to see a