stairs, and rushed violently into the drawing-room,
where Lizzie was still lying upon her
sofa, "Well, what is it?" said I, impatiently;
"I am in a hurry."

"O," said Lizzie, in her gentle way, " do
come and sit down beside me; I want to
speak to you very much—that is, to ask a
great favour."

"Is the child mad?" I said, very roughly
I fear. "I tell you I haven't a moment to
spare; can't you say it out at once?"

Poor Lizzie sighed. "Well, then," she
said, "you'll promise me not to be angry?"

"No, no," said I, stamping, "do be quick."

"Well," said she, taking out a little bit of
paper from behind the cushion, "here is
Madame Dupont been writing me a most
impertinent letter, and—"

"What have I to do with Madame Dupont?"
I interrupted; "who is she?"

"Don't you know?—the milliner," said
Lizzie; "and now I want you, like a good
dear, to give me the money for her—only
twenty pounds; only to pay her and have
done with her."

She said this so prettily, with that little
earnest manner of hers, that my heart smote
me; and, for a moment, she and the famous
Chronicle were balancing each other in the
scales. It was only for a moment. Ah, the
choice copy! the rich embossed binding and
clasps! It was not to be thought of!

"No, Lizzie, I have no money to spare at
present; we must try and put off Madame
Dupont."

"Well, ten pounds; only ten!"

"Impossible."

"What," said Lizzie, with a little sigh,
"couldn't you spare me that much out of all
I saw in your desk yesterday?"

I blushed scarlet, not from shame, but from
rage at being detected. "A spy! " I exclaimed,
in a perfect fury; "a spy upon my
actions! I hate such mean tricks. But," I
added, turning sharp upon her with a feeling
that I must put a stop to this work, "I won't
tolerate this interference; I'm not to be
brought to an account for the little money I
lay out on myself. Such low, mean prying!
But money must be had for all your finery—
of course, of course," and more to the same
effect, which it chills my very heart to dwell
on now. My only hope and consolation is
that I was beside myself all that time. Poor
Lizzie listened to me, perfectly overwhelmed,
and trembling like an aspen leaf. She never
answered me, but sank down upon the sofa
without a word. I left her, thinking I had
given a wholesome lesson, and walked out of
the house in a proper state of indignation.

But the Chronicle—the famous Chronicle!
I had utterly forgotten it. I felt a cold thrill
all over me as I took out my watch. Just
two o'clock. I flew into a cab, and set off at
a headlong pace for Sotheby's. But my fatal
presentiment was to be verified. It was over;
I was too late. The great Chronicle, the
choice, the beautiful, the unique, had passed
from me for ever, and beyond recal; and, as I
afterwards learned, for the ridiculous sum of
nineteen pounds odd shillings.

And who was I to thank for this—this
cruel prostration of all my hopes? Here
was the prize torn from me, lost by a minute's
delay, and all for a woman's absurd whim
and caprice. By Heaven, it was enough to
drive me distracted. But no matter; when
I got home I would give her a piece of my
mind. I would be master in my own house.
Lashing myself thus into a rage, I strode
moodily into the house, and made my way
straight to the drawing-room. There I burst
into a catalogue of all my griefs, mingled
with a torrent of reproaches. She had ruined
me—such an opportunity would never come
again; I never would forget it to her. But
let her take warning in time. I would put
up with this kind of interference no longer.
Poor Lizzie listened first with astonishment,
but, as she began to understand me, I saw
her bright eyes flashing in a way I had never
seen before. "And so," she said, her voice
trembling with excitement, "this was why
you refused me the little sum I asked. For
shame! I could not have believed you so
cruel—yes, so selfish. But I ought to have
known this before; kind friends told me that
this would come to pass—that you would
sacrifice me to this wretched passion."

Again my heart smote me, and I felt a
longing to sink down before her and beg
forgiveness; but at the same instant I heard
something whispering secretly in my ear that
she it was who had lost me my precious
treasure. On this I froze again in a moment.
What right had she to hold this tone to me?
I asked. I was sickened and repelled, I said,
with her coldness and want of interest in
all that concerned me. Then Lizzie, raising
herself up from her sofa, and her eyes flashing
more than ever, said she would speak
now, for my sake as well as her own: that
as to my unkinduess and neglect, that was
not so much matter—she would try and bear
it—she would get accustomed to it, she
supposed; but that I was fast ruining myself,
making myself a laughing-stock—yes, a
laughing-stock—to every one. It was a pity
we had ever come together.

"Yes," I said, bitterly, " it was a pity, a
great pity, I did not meet one more suited to
my tastes—one that might have made some
allowance, at least, for any old habits and
associations. But it was no use talking about
it now; it was too late." With that I hastily
turned away; and, feeling that I had been
aggrieved, retreated to my study, full of
bitterness and disappointment. Was there ever
anything so unreasonable? And, instead of
showing some sorrow for causing me such a
disappointment, to turn round and beard me
in this manner. A laughing-stock! Those
words grated unpleasantly on my ear, as I
thought them over. I felt an envenomed