"Don't pour any more of that stuff over me," he answered, languidly. "You must have expended quarts. I can feel little rivulets of it creep-creeping at the roots of my hair."

"But, Bertie, what was the matter with you?"

"I hardly know. It's all over now. My heart seemed to stop beating just for a moment. I wonder if it did, really? Or should I have died? Do sit down, Judith. You look as if you were going to faint too."

She sat down by him. After a minute Bertie's slim, long fingers groped restlessly, and she held them in a tender grasp. So for some time they remained hand in hand. Judith watched him furtively, as he lay with closed eyes, his fair boyish face pressed on the dingy cushion, and a great tenderness lighted her quiet glance. Suddenly Bertie's eyes opened, and met hers. She answered his look of inquiry.

"You are all I have, dear. We two are alone, are we not? I must be anxious if you are ill."

He pressed her hand, but he turned his face a little away, conscious at the same moment of a flush of self-reproach, and of a lurking smile. "Don't!" he said. "I'm not ill. I'm all right now-never better. Isn't it time for me to be off? I say, my dear girl, if you don't look sharp, you'll be late at St. Andrew's."

"St. Andrew's!" she repeated scornfully. "I go to St. Andrew's now, and think all the service through that my bad boy may be fainting at St. Sylvester's! No, no; I shall go with you."

“Thank you,” said Bertie, sitting up, and running his fingers through his hair, by way of preparation for church, "I shall be glad, if you don't mind."

"That is," she went on, "if you are fit to go at all."

"Oh yes. I couldn't leave old Clifton in the lurch, for anything short of sudden death, and even then he'd feel himself ill-used. Stay at home because I felt faint! It would be as much as my place is worth," said Bertie, with a smile, of which Judith could not understand the fine irony.

"I'll go and get ready," she said. But she went to the door of Percival's sitting-room and knocked.

"Come in," he answered, and she opened it. He was stooping over his fire, poker in hand. She paused on the threshold, and, after breaking a hard lump of coal, he looked over his shoulder. "Miss Lisle! I beg your pardon. I thought they had come for the breakfast things."

"Oh!" she said, in a slightly disappointed tone. "You are not going to church to-day." For Thorne was more picturesquely careless in his apparel than is the wont of the British church-goer.

A rapid change of mind enabled him to answer truthfully, "Yes, I am. I ought to get ready, I suppose. Did you want me for anything, Miss Lisle?"

"Were you going to St. Sylvester's, or not?"

Percival had known by her tone that she wanted him to go to church. But he did not know which church claimed his attendance, so he answered cautiously, "Oh, I hardly know. I think I should like some one to make up my mind for me. Are you going with your

brother?"

"Yes," said Judith. "He isn't very well to-day. I was rather frightened by his fainting just now."

"Of course I'll go with you," said Percival. minutes. Been fainting? Is he better now?"

"I'll be ready in two

"Much better. Will you really?" And Judith vanished.

Percival was perhaps a little longer than the time he had named, but he soon came out in a very different character from that of the young man who had lounged over his late breakfast, in his shabby coat. He looked anxiously at young Lisle as they started, but Bertie's appearance was hardly such as to call for immediate alarm. He seemed well enough, Percival thought, though perhaps a little excited. In truth, there was not much amiss with him. He had got over the uneasy sense of self-reproach; the sudden shock which had caused his dismay was past, and as he went his way, solemnly escorted by his loving sister and his devoted friend, he was suffering much more from suppressed laughter than from anything else. Everything was a joke, and the narrowness of his escape that morning was a greater joke than all. "By Jove! what a laugh we will have over it, one of these days!" thought Lisle, as he put on his surplice.

Loving eyes followed him as he went to his place, and his name was fondly breathed in loving prayers.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE LAST MUSIC LESSON.

On the Tuesday morning Bertie was late for breakfast, and came in yawning rather ostentatiously. Judith protested good-humouredly. "Lie in bed late, or yawn, but you can't want to do both. Why, it is eleven hours since you went up to bed." This was perfectly true, but not so much to the point as she supposed.

Ever since the mysterious fainting fit, Judith had watched him with tender anxiety, and it seemed to her that there was something strange in his manner that morning. She did not know what it was, but had she held any clue to his thoughts, she would have perceived that Bertie was astonished and bewildered. He looked as if a dream had suddenly become a reality, as if a jest had turned into marvellous earnest. He smoked his pipe, leaning by the open window, with a serious, and almost awe-struck expression in his eyes. One might have fancied that he was transformed, visibly to himself, and was perplexed to find that the

change was invisible to others. Judith could not understand this quiet gravity.

She came up to him, and laid her hand caressingly on his shoulder. He did not turn, but pointed with the stem of his pipe across the street.

"Look," he said. never saw it till to-day."

"Nor I."

"There's a bit of houseleek on those tiles. I

"It looks green and pleasant," said Bertie in a gentle meditative voice. "I like it."

"Our summer garden," Judith suggested.

"I wonder if there's any houseleek on our roof," he went on after a

moment.

"It's

"We will hope so, for our neighbours' sake," said his sister. a new idea to me. I thought our roof was nothing but tiles and catsprincipally cats."

Bertie smoked his pipe, and surveyed the houseleek as if it were a newly discovered star. Everything was strange and wonderful that morning. Vague ideas floated in the atmosphere, half seen against the background of common things. The mood, born of exceptional circumstances, was unique in his life. Had it been habitual, there would have been hope of a new poet, or, since his taste lay in the direction of wordless harmony, of a great musician.

"You won't be late at the Square, Bertie dear? said Judith.

"No. I'll not be late," he answered absently. He felt that the pale gold of the April sunlight was beautiful even in Bellevue Street.

"The last lesson," she said. Bertie, suddenly roused, looked round at her with startled eyes. "What! had you forgotten that the girls go home to-morrow?" cried Judith in great surprise. She had counted the days so often.

He laughed, shortly and uneasily, "I suppose I had. Queer, wasn't it? Yes, it's my last lesson, as you say. If I had only thought of it I might have composed a Lament, taught it to all my pupils, and charged a fancy price for it in the bill.”

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That would have been very touching. A little tiresome to you, perhaps, and to Miss Crawford-—”

"Bless you! She's always asleep," said Bertie, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and pocketing it. I might teach them the Old Hundredth, one after the other, all the morning through. She wouldn't know. So your work ends to-morrow?"

"Not quite. The girls go to-morrow, but I have promised to be at the Square on Thursday. There's a good deal to be done, and I should like to see Miss Crawford safely off in the afternoon."

"Where's the old woman going?"

"To Cromer for a few days. She lived there as a child, and loves it more than any place in the world."

"Does the poor old lady think she'll grow young again there?" said Bertie. "Well, perhaps she will," he added after a pause. "At any rate she may forget that she has grown old."

Punctually at the appointed hour, the young music-master arrived in Standon Square. It was for the last time, as Judith had said. Miss Crawford looked older, and Miss Crawford's cap looked newer, than either had ever done before. She put her weak little hand into Bertie's, and said some prim, kindly words, about the satisfaction his lessons had given, the progress his pupils had made, and the confidence she felt in his sister and himself. As she spoke she was sure he was gratified, for the colour mounted to his face. Suddenly she stopped in the midst of her neatly worded sentences. "You are like your mother, Mr. Lisle," she said; "I never saw it so much before." And she murmured something, half to herself, about her first pupil, the dearest of them all. Bertie, for once in his life, was silent and bashful.

The old lady rang the bell, and requested that Miss Macdonald might be told that it was time for her lesson, and that Mr. Lisle had arrived During the brief interval that ensued, the music-master looked furtively round the room, as if he had never seen it before. It seemed to him almost as if he looked at it with different eyes, and read Miss Crawford's life in it. It was a prim, light-coloured drawing-room, adorned with many trifles, which were interesting as indications of patience, and curious in point of taste. There was a great deal of worsted work, and still more crochet. Everything that could possibly stand on a mat, stood on a mat, and other mats lay disconsolately about, waiting, as cabmen wait for a fare. Every piece of furniture was carefully arranged, with a view to supporting the greatest possible number of antimacassars. There were water-colour paintings on the walls, and bouquets of wax flowers bloomed gaily under glass shades on every table. There were screens, cushions, pen-wipers. Bertie calculated that Miss Crawford's drawingroom might yield several quarts of beads. He had seen all these things many times, but they had acquired a new meaning and interest that day.

Miss Macdonald appeared, and Miss Crawford seated herself on a pink rose, about the size of a Jersey cabbage, with two colossal buds, and rested her tired back against a similar group. At the first notes of the piano her watchful and smiling face relaxed, and she nodded wearily in the background. It did not matter much. The young master was grave, silent, patient, conscientious. In fact it did not matter at all. Having slept through the earlier lessons, the schoolmistress might well sleep through this. It was rather a pity, that instead of taking a placid and unbroken rest on the sofa, she sat stiffly on a worked chair, and started into uneasy wakefulness between each lesson, dismissing one girl and sending for the next with infinite politeness and propriety. At last she said, "And will you have the kindness to tell Miss Nash?"

Bertie sat, turning over a piece of music, till the sound of the opening

door told him that his pupil had arrived. Then he rose and looked in her direction, but avoided her eyes.

There was no schoolgirl slovenliness about Emmeline Nash. Her grey dress was fresh and neat, a tiny bunch of spring flowers was fastened in it, a ribbon of delicate blue was round her neck. As she came forward with a slight flush on her cheek, her head carried defiantly, and the sunlight shining on her pale hair, Miss Crawford said to herself that really she was a stylish girl, ladylike and pretty. Her schoolfellows declared that Emmeline always went about with her mouth hanging open. But that day the parted lips had an innocent expression of wonder and expectation.

The lesson was begun in as business like a fashion as the others. Perhaps Emmeline regaled the young master with a few more false notes than usual, but she was curiously intent on the page before her. Presently she stole a glance over her shoulder at Miss Crawford. She was asleep. Emmeline played a few bars mechanically, and then she turned to Bertie.

The eyes which met her own had an anxious, tender, almost reverential expression. This slim fair girl had suddenly become a very wonderful being to Lisle, and he touched her hand with delicate respect, and looked strangely at her pretty vacant face.

Had there been the usual laughter lurking in his glance, Emmeline would have giggled. Her nerves were tensely strung, and giggling was her sole expression for a wide range of emotion. But his gravity astonished her so much that she looked at the page before her again, and went on playing with her mouth open.

Towards the close of the lesson, master and pupil exchanged a few whispered words. "You may rely on me," said Bertie finally; "what did I promise this morning?" He spoke cautiously, watching Miss Crawford. She moved in her light slumber and uttered an inarticulate sound. The young people started asunder, and blushed a guilty red. Emmeline, with an unfounded assumption of presence of mind, began to play a variation, containing such loud and agitated discords, that further slumber must have been miraculous. But Lisle interposed, Gently,"

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he said. "Let me show you how that should be played." And he lulled the sleeper with the tenderest harmony.

In due time the lesson came to an end. Miss Crawford presided over the farewell, and regretted that it was really Miss Nash's last lesson, as (though Mr. Lisle perhaps was not aware of it) she was not coming back to Standon Square. Mr. Lisle in his turn expressed much regret, and said that he should miss his pupil. "You must on no account forget to practise every day," said the old lady, turning to Emmeline. "Must she, Mr. Lisle?"

Mr. Lisle hoped that Miss Nash would devote at least three hours every day to her music. The falsehood was so audacious that he shuddered as he uttered it. He made a ceremonious bow, and fled.