gaged in speculation which resulted disastrously. I am very much afraid that his misfortunes-the unfortunate end of these speculations-hastened his end. I do not think that he himself was quite aware of the condition of his affairs; certainly my father-I was abroad at the time of Mr. Jermyn's death, as you are aware- -did not know how your father stood. It was not until after his death that we learnt from his lawyer that Mr. Jermyn's fortune had been entirely absorbed by these miserable speculations."

There was silence. Kyra continued to gaze at him as if she were trying, as indeed she was, to realise the truth. Stracey stood with one arm leaning on the mantle-shelf, his face grave, his eyes downcast. His father, with his mouth half open, was staring at him, expectantly.

"I have the lawyer's letter here," said Stracey; "and I will read it to you.

He went to the bureau and unlocked it, and taking out the sheaf of letters, selected one and gravely read it aloud:

"MY DEAR MR. FROYTE,-I have gone thoroughly into the affairs of my late client, Mr. Jermyn, and I am sorry to be compelled to confirm what I told you when I saw you last. The large fortune which Mr. Jermyn once possessed-the accumulations and the investments of many years-has been entirely swallowed up by the losses incurred in speculations on the Stock Exchange, of which I was entirely ignorant. Had Mr. Jermyn asked my advice, I should have warned him against these rash ventures, and, probably, under Providence, should have been able to dissuade him from a course which has resulted in the loss of his whole fortune and reduced to poverty the daughter to whom he was so devoted, and who would otherwise have been amply provided for. I am very much grieved at her position; but I am somewhat consoled by the reflection that she has in you and your son, Mr. Stracey, warm and constant friends, who will protect and watch over her.

"I am, yours very faithfully,

"ROBERT ROLF."

Stracey read this very slowly, so slowly that Kyra, notwithstanding her confusion, was enabled to take in its sense. She drew a long breath, and her eyes closed for an instant. And at that instant she was thinking, not of herself, but of Lance le Breton. At last she said, in so low a voice that it was almost inaudible:

"Then-then I am poor-I have nothing-I am pen

niless?"

Stracey heaved a sigh; his father fell back and drew a long, gasping breath, his eyes fixed on the letter; and a shudder ran through him.

"Yes," said Stracey, "that is the truth. I am sure, my dear Kyra, that you would rather know it, know the worst; and I am quite sure that you will not allow it to disturb you, to make you unhappy. As Mr. Rolf said, you have a true friend in my father-and may I say?—myself.

Kyra passed her hand over her brow.

"I am poor-not a penny! I have been living on your charity! I must go-go somewhere. The letter-give me the letter: I want to read it, quietly, to understand

Stracey held out the letter and she took it.

"Certainly, my dear Kyra. But you will not forget that this makes no difference to us or to you; I mean that you will still live here with your friends, with those who love you-"

She took the letter, looked at him as if she did not hear him, and went out on to the terrace.

James Froyte struggled from his chair with his arm outstretched as if imploringly.

"No, no, no, Štracey!" he gasped.

"For God's sake

Stracey caught him by the shoulder. "Hush! Hold your tongue," he said, in a whisper, almost hissed; and he forced him softly back into his chair again.

James Froyte lay back panting and regarding his son's face, white under its sallowness, as if it were a basilisk. Presently they heard a faint cry from the terrace, and they both rushed out. Kyra was lying back in the chair, her eyes closed, her face white, her arms hanging limply. They stood and gazed at her in a horrible silence for a moment.

"It's-it's one of her trances," whispered James Froyte, huskily. "She looks-my God! she looks as if—"

"As if she were dead," finished Stracey, in a voice that was lower than a whisper.

He stooped and picked up the letter which had fluttered from her lifeless fingers and put it carefully in his pocket, his eyes still fixed on the white face. Then he started and glanced at his father, as if he feared that the thought which had flashed through his mind should have been read by the

other man.

"Yes," he said, almost to himself, "she looks as if she were dead!"

CHAPTER XIV.

IT is rather late in the day to remark that London is the most wonderful city in the world. The man who knows it and loves it can never possibly grow weary of it because, however well he may know and love it, he is always certain of finding something novel and interesting in it. It is a city of surprise-packets.

For instance, the person who only took a cursory view of that northern district of it which goes by the name of Pentonville, would consider himself fully justified in regarding it as an extremely dull and uninteresting place, a region of dreary streets with equally dreary houses, each bearing a distressing likeness to its neighbour, and all without that one touch of individuality which gives life its savour; but the real student of London would not be deceived or satisfied by this superficial view, and, if he penetrated into the heart and the secret places of Pentonville, he would not be disappointed at his surprise-packet.

White Horse Lane would have afforded the student of London one of the instances referred to. As a matter of fact, it was not a lane, whatever it may have been at one time, but a cul-de-sac, which you entered and left by a low gate-way or archway of old, time-eaten stone. This archway stood in the middle of a dreary and commonplace street, and few persons would have been tempted to pass underneath it. But when you did so, the surprise was there, awaiting you full blown; for, by a sharp turn you came upon a square place which looked like a bit of medieval garden dropped, as if by magic, into the heart of squalid London. In the centre of the square was a grand old elm, now in full leaf and casting a grateful shade upon the huge cobble-stones with which the yard was paved. At one time there had been a famous inn in White Horse Lane, but though the iron frame-work of its sign still protruded from it, it had long ceased to be an inn, and now the greater part of it was filled with the material used by the carpenter and packing-case maker whose workshop and tiny dwelling-house fronted it. The whole place, excepting the stables where Mr. Nolly kept his stock-in-trade, was running to picturesque ruin and decay; yet not the whole place, for one must except the small portion of it in which Nolly and his daughter Bessie lived. It was this part of White Horse Lane which made it so picturesque to the beholder. It con

sisted of three or four rooms on the ground floor of the old inn, which had been divided into small but cosy rooms, and outside and in, they were as fresh as paint and paper and whitewash could make them. There was what is called a "window garden," all gay, not to say brilliant, with scarlet geranium and golden calceolaria on the sill of the window-a Lattice window of the little living-room. The door, open in the summer, and, indeed, nearly all the year round, was painted a vivid green, and on the wall beside it hung a cage containing a thrush that filled the summer evening air of White Horse Lane with a heavenly harmony, as he looked down at the huge Persian cat sitting on the threshold and blinking at the sparrows who, with the Cockney impudence for which they are famous, were hopping about and picking up the corn which Mr. Nolly's stable-boy had dropped. The interior of the living-room was as bright and cheerful as the exterior; it, too, was as fresh as paint could make it; its paper was of a brilliant design representing roses of an impossible size and an impossible crimson growing in impossible luxuriance over a vividly green lattice. Everything that could be made to shine in the little room shone to a dazzling extent; and everything that ought to have been clean was as clean as a new pin. Through the door-way of a small adjoining room came the rays and the warmth from the fire at which Bessie was making tea.

A combination of cheerful sounds accompanied the operation. The thrush sang at the door-way, the sparrows chirped as they hopped about the cobble-stones, the cat purred loudly, and the kettle sang; and, like a bass accompaniment, there was the "tap, tap! boom, boom!" of the carpenter's hammer as he fastened on the strips of iron on the packing-cases; there was also the snoring of the blind basket-maker's dog, who lay asleep on the strip of hot pavement outside his master's tiny workshop and dwelling-place, which stood a little farther up the yard.

Above the carpenter's shop, which was exactly opposite Nolly's, a board bore the name, "John Warden," with Carpenter and Packing-case Maker. Estimates given," underneath; and John Warden himself, who was as broad and healthy-looking a young fellow as if he lived and worked in a country village instead of in a London court-yard, could, by raising his eyes, lock across the yard and through the doorway and right into a part of the room in which Bessie's pretty and graceful figure flitted to and fro as she laid the tea things.

And John did very often raise his eyes and look wistfully and somewhat sadly at the pretty picture: it was one he had been looking at and admiring for many wears-almost as long as he could remember. It was a picture which had at one and the same time sweetened and saddened his life. He had been in love with the pretty Bessie ever since the time when she had not been pretty, but had been an angular school-girl, all legs and wings and sharp corners; but she had seemed pretty in John's eyes, even then: guess, then, how desirable she must seem now, now that the angles were rounded off into delicious curves, the arms and legs had become graceful and proportional, the thin, little face gentle and pretty, and the lank hair, no longer flicking about her shoulders, but bound into a golden knot at the back of her head, and fluttering about her temples in tendrils like floss-silk.

There had been a time, not so very long distant, when John had entertained a hope that his affection might be returned, his passionate, dog-like devotion might not go unrewarded; but a sudden change had taken place in their old girl-and-boy relations-it had dated from the time when a certain dark, sallow-faced, "gentlemanly-looking," young fellow had dropped in to tea and supper at the Nollys-and Bessie's manner towards her old playmate of the yard had grown cold and reserved, as if her mind had suddenly become much occupied with new and strange matters-perhaps with some new and strange man-the dark, sallow-faced, gentlemanly man, whose name, John knew, was "Black."

The change had made him very unhappy, and he had been inclined to give way to despair; but Mr. Black's visits had come to an end as suddenly as they had begun, and John, though not very hopeful, was beginning to pluck up a little heart and to look across at the Nollys' bright, little dwelling a little less sadly.

This evening, he could not only catch occasional glimpses of the slim, graceful figure, in its pretty print dress one of those dainty, bewitching prints which are now coming into fashion again, and which-thank goodness-you can buy for sixpence halfpenny a yard in any of the drapers in High Street, Islington-but he could also hear Bessie's voice as she went singing softly, and a little sadly, about her work; and it seemed to him the sweetest sound in the world, sweeter even than the thrush's song, the "tap, tap! boom, boom!" of his hammer, just as the old-fashioned yard, which the outer world knew as White Horse Lane, seemed the brightest and best spot in the universe; though Mr. Nolly's stables were not