terribly short. He was hurrying homewards while these thoughts passed through his mind, when Judith's words came back to him,-"I have a pound or two to spare, and I feel quite rich." He took the first turning towards Miss Macgregor's house.

Outside her door he halted for a moment. If they would not let him see Judith, how was he to convey his request? He felt in his pocket, found the telegram, and pencilled below the message, "Sissy Langton was once to have been my wife—we parted, and I have never seen her since. I have not money enough for my railway fare-can you help me?" He folded it, and rang the bell.

No, he could not see Miss Lisle. She was particularly engaged. "Very well," he said. "Be so good as to take this note to her, and I will wait for the answer." His manner impressed the girl so much that, although she had been carefully trained by Miss Macgregor, she cast but one hesitating glance at the umbrella-stand, before she went on her errand.

Percival waited, eager to be off, yet well assured that it was all right since it was in Judith's hands. Presently the servant returned, and gave him a little packet. The wax of the seal was still warm. He opened it where he stood, and by the light of Miss Macgregor's hall lamp, read the couple of lines it contained.

"I cannot come, but I send you all the money I have. I pray God you may be in time. Yours, JUDITH."

He told the girl to

There were two sovereigns and some silver. thank Miss Lisle, and went out into the dusk, as the clocks were striking nine. Ten minutes brought him to Bellevue Street, and rushing up to his room he began to put a few things into a little travelling-bag. In his haste he neglected to shut the door, and Mrs. Bryant, whose curiosity had been excited, came upon him in the midst of this occupation.

"And what may be the meaning of this, Mr. Thorne, if I may make so bold as to ask?" she said, eyeing him doubtfully from the doorway. Percival explained that he had had bad news, and was off by the

express.

Mrs. Bryant's darkest suspicions were aroused. She said it was a likely story.

"Why, you gave me the telegram yourself," he answered indifferently, while he caught up a couple of collars. He was too much absorbed to heed either Mrs. Bryant or his packing.

“And who sent it, I should like to know?”

Percival made no answer, and she began to grumble about people who had money enough to travel all over the country at a minute's notice, if they liked, and none to pay their debts-people who made promises by the hour together, and then sneaked off, leaving boxes with nothing inside them, she'd be bound

Thus baited, Percival at last turned angrily upon her, but, before he could utter a word, another voice interposed.

"What are you always worrying about, Ma? Do come down, and have your supper, and let Mr. Thorne finish his packing. He'll pay you every halfpenny he owes you-don't you know that?" And the door was shut with such decision, that it was a miracle that Mrs. Bryant was not dashed against the opposite wall. "Come along," said Lydia, "there's toasted cheese."

Percival ran downstairs five minutes later with his bag in his hand. He turned into his sitting-room, picked up a few papers, and thrust them into his desk. He was in the act of locking it, when he heard a step behind him, and looking round he saw Lydia. She had a cup of tea, and some bread-and-butter, which she set down before him. "You haven't had a morsel since the middle of the day," she said. "Just you drink this—Oh, you must-there's lots of time."

"Miss Bryant, this is very kind of you, but I don't think—"

"Just you drink it," said Lydia, "and eat a bit too, or you'll be good for nothing." And while Percival hastily obeyed, she glanced round the room. "Nobody'll meddle with your things while you're gone don't you trouble yourself."

"Oh, I didn't suspect that anyone would," he replied, hardly thinking whether it was likely or not, as he swallowed the bread-and-butter.

"Well, that was very nice of you, I'm sure. I should have suspected a lot if I'd been you," said Lydia, candidly. "But nobody shall. Now you aren't going to leave that tea. Why, it wants twenty minutes to ten, and not six minutes' walk to the station."

Percival finished the tea. "Thank you very much, Miss Bryant." "And I say," Lydia pursued, pulling her curl, with less than her usual consideration for its beauty, "I suppose you have got money enough? Because if not, I'll lend you a little. Don't you mind what Ma says, Mr. Thorne. I know you're all right."

"You are very good," said Percival. "I didn't expect so much kindness, and I've been borrowing already, so I needn't trouble you. But thank you for your confidence in me, and for your thoughtfulness." He held out his hand to Lydia, and thus bade farewell to Bellevue Street.

She stood for a moment looking after him. Only a few hours before, she would have rejoiced in any small trouble or difficulty which might have befallen Mr. Thorne. But when he turned round upon her mother and herself, as they stood at his door, her spite had vanished before the sorrowful anxiety of his eyes. She had frequently declared that Mr. Thorne was no gentleman, and that she despised him, but she knew in her heart that he was a gentleman, and she was ashamed of her mother's behaviour. Lydia was capable of being magnanimous, provided the object of her magnanimity were a man. I doubt if she could have been magnanimous to a woman. But Percival Thorne was a young and handsome man, and though she did not know what his errand might be, she knew

that she was not sending him to Miss Lisle. Standing before his glass, she smoothed back her hair with both hands, arranged the ribbon at her throat, and admired the blue earrings, and a large locket which she wore suspended from a chain. Even while she thought kindly of Mr. Thorne, and wished him well, she was examining her complexion and her hands, with the eye of a critic. "I don't believe that last stuff is a mite of good," she said to herself; "and it's no end of bother. I might as well pitch the bottle out of window. It was just as well that he'd borrowed the money of some one else, but I'm glad I offered it. I wonder when he'll come back." And with that Lydia returned to her toasted cheese.

Percival had had a nervous fear of some hindrance on his way to the station. It was so urgent that he should go by this train, that the necessity oppressed him like a nightmare. An earthquake seemed a not improbable thing. He was seriously afraid that he might lose his way, during the five minutes' walk through familiar streets. He imagined an error of half an hour or so in all the Brenthill clocks. He hardly knew what be expected, but he felt it a relief when he came to the station, and found it standing in its right place, quietly awaiting him. He was the first to take a ticket, and the moment the train drew up by the platform, his hand was on the door of a carriage, though, before getting in, he stopped a porter to inquire if this were the express. The porter answered “Yes, sir—all right," with the half smile of superior certainty. What else could it be? Thorne took his place, and waited a few minutes, which seemed an eternity. Then the engine screamed, throbbed, and with quickening speed rushed out into the night.

A man was asleep in one corner of the carriage, otherwise Percival was alone. His nervous anxiety subsided, since nothing further depended upon him till he reached town, and he sat thinking of Sissy, and of that brief engagement which had already receded into a shadowy past. "It was a mistake," he mused, "and she found it out before it was too late. But I believe her poor little heart has been aching for me, lest she wounded me too cruelly that night. It wasn't her fault. She would have hid her fear of me, poor child, if she had been able. And she was so sorry for me in my trouble. I don't think she could be content to go on her way, and take her happiness now, while my life was spoilt and miserable. Poor little Sissy, she will be glad to know—"

And then he remembered that it was to a dying Sissy that the tidings of marriage and hope must be uttered, if uttered at all. And he sat as it were in a dull dream, trying to realise how the life which, in the depths of his poverty, had seemed to him so beautiful and safe, was suddenly cut short, and how Sissy at that moment lay in the darkness, waiting—waiting-waiting. The noise of the train took up his thought, and set it to a monotonous repetition of "Waiting at Ashendale !—Waiting at Ashendale!" If only she might live till he could reach her! He seemed to be hurrying onward, yet no nearer. His overwrought brain caught up the fancy that Death and he were side by side, racing together VOL. XXXVIII.-NO. 228.

36.

through the dark, at breathless, headlong speed, to Sissy, where she waited for them both.

Outside, the landscape lay dim and small, dwarfed by the presence of the night. And with the lights burning on its breast, as Sissy saw them in her half waking visions, the express rushed southward across the level blackness of the land, beneath the arch of midnight sky.

CHAPTER LII.

"Quand on a trouvé ce qu'on cherchait, on n'a pas le temps de le dire:
il faut mourir."-J. JOUBERT.

WHEN the grey of the early morning had changed to golden sunlight, and the first faint twittering of the birds gave place to fuller melody, Mrs. Middleton went softly to the window, opened it, and fastened it back. She drew a long breath of the warm air, fresh from the beanfields, and looking down into the little orchard below, she saw Harry Hardwicke, who stepped forward, and looked up at her. She signed to him to wait, and a couple of minutes later she joined him.

"How is she? How has she passed the night?" he asked eagerly. "She is no worse. She has lived through it bravely, with one thought-you were very right to send for Percival.”

Hardwicke looked down, and coloured as he had coloured when he spoke of him before. "I'm glad," he said. "I'm off to fetch him in about an hour and a half."

"Nothing from Godfrey Hammond?" she asked after a pause.

"No. I'll ask at my father's as I go by. He will either come, or we shall hear, unless he is out."

"Of course," the old lady answered. "Godfrey Hammond would not fail me. And now good-by, Harry, till you bring Percival."

She went away as swiftly and lightly as she had come a minute before, and left Hardwicke standing on the turf under the apple-trees, gazing up at the open casement. A June morning, sun shining, soft winds blowing, a young lover under his lady's window-it should have been a perfect poem. And the lady within lay crushed and maimed, dying in the very heart of her June!

Hardwicke let himself out through the little wicket gate, and went back to the Latimer Arms. He entered the bedroom without disturbing Archie, who lay, with his sunburnt face on the white pillow, smiling in his sleep. He could not find it in his heart to arouse him. The boy's lips parted, he murmured a word or two, and seemed to sink into a yet deeper slumber. Hardwicke went softly out, gave the landlady directions about breakfast, and returned, watch in hand. "I suppose I must," he said to himself.

But he stopped short. Carroll stirred, stretched himself, his eyes

But suddenly

were half open, evidently his waking was a pleasant one. the unfamiliar aspect of the room attracted his attention, he looked eagerly round, a shadow swept across his face, and he turned and saw Hardwicke. "It's true!" he said, and flung out his arms in a paroxysm of despair.

Harry walked to the window and leant out. Presently a voice behind him asked, "Have you been to the farm, Mr. Hardwicke?" "Yes," said Harry. "But there is no news. She passed a tolerably quiet night. There is no change."

"I never thought I

"I've been asleep," said Archie, after a pause. should sleep." He looked ashamed of having done so. "It would have been strange if you hadn't. You were worn out." "My watch has run down," the other continued.

time?"

"What is the

"Twenty minutes past seven. I want to speak to you, Carroll. I think you had better go home."

"Home To Fordborough? To Raymond?"

"No-really home, to your own people. You can write to your cousin. You don't want to go back to him?"

Archie shook his head. Then a sudden sense of injustice to Fothergill prompted him to say, "Ray was never hard on me before." "You mustn't think about that," Hardwicke replied. "People don't weigh their words at such times. But, Carroll, you can do nothing here, -less than nothing. You'll be better away. Give me your address, and I'll write-any news there is. Look sharp now, and you can go into Fordborough with me, and catch the up-train."

As they drove through the green lanes, along which they had passed the day before, Archie looked right and left, recalling the incidents of that earlier drive. Already he was better, possessing his sorrow with greater keenness and fulness than at first, but not so miserably possessed by it. Hardly a word was spoken till they stood on the platform, and a far-off puff of white showed the coming train. Then he said, "I shall never forget your kindness, Mr. Hardwicke. If ever there's anything I can do--"

"You'll do it," said Harry with a smile. "That I will! And you'll write?"

Hardwicke answered, "Yes." He knew too well what it was he promised to write, to say a word more.

It was a relief to him when Carroll was gone, and he could pace the platform, and watch for the London train. He looked through the open doorway, and saw his dogcart waiting in the road, and the horse tossing his head impatiently in the sunshine. Through all his anxiety, or rather, side by side with his anxiety, he was conscious of a current of interest in all manner of trivial things. He thought of the price he had given for the horse, five months before, and of Latimer's opinion of his bargain. He noticed the station-master in the distance, and remembered that some