abroad. The doctors had declared that there was not a chance for him in England.

At this time Percival kept a sort of rough diary. Here is a leaf from it :

"I am much troubled by a certain little devil, who comes as soon as I am safely in bed, and sits on my pillow. He flattens it abominably, or else I do it myself, tossing about in my impatience. He is quite still for a minute or two, and I try my best to think he isn't there at all. Then he stoops down and whispers in my ear Convulsions!' and starts up again like india-rubber. I won't listen. I recall some tune or other-it won't come, and there is a hitch, a horrible blank, in the midst of which he is down again-I knew he would be-suggesting 'croup.' I repeat some bit of a poem, but it won't do; what is the next line? I think of old days with my father, when I knew nothing of Brackenhill; I try to remember my mother's face-I am getting on very well. But all at once I become conscious that he has been for some time murmuring as to himself, 'Whooping cough and scarlet fever-scarlet fever.' I grow fierce, and say, 'I pray God he may escape them all!' To which he softly replies, His grandfather died-his father is dying-of decline.'

"I roll over to the other side, and encounter him, or his twin brother, there. A perfectly silent little devil this time, with a faculty for calling up pictures. He shows me the office-I see it-I smell it, with its flaring gaslights, and sickly atmosphere. Then he shows me the long drawing-room at Brackenhill, the quaint old furniture, the pictures on the walls, the terrace, with its balustrade and balls of mossy stone, and through the windows come odours of jasmine, and roses, and far-off fields, while inside there is the sweetness of dried blossoms and spices, in the great china jars. A moment more, and it is Bellevue Street, with its rows of hideous, whited houses. And then again it is a river, curving swiftly and grandly between its castled rocks-or a bridge of many arches, in the twilight, and the lights coming out one by one in the old walled town, and road and river, travelling one knows not where, into regions just falling asleep in the quiet dusk. Or there is a holiday crowd, a moonlit ferry, steep wooded hills, and songs and laughter which echo in the streets, and float across the tide. Or the Alps, keenly cut against the infinite depth of blue, with a whiteness, and a far-off glory, no tongue can utter. Or a solemn cathedral, or a busy town piled up, with church and castle high aloft, and a still, transparent lake below. But through it all, and underlying it all, is Bellevue Street, with the dirty men and women, who scream and shout at each other, and wrangle in its filthy courts and alleys. Still, God knows that I don't repent, and that I wish my little cousin well."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

WANTED, AN ORGANIST.

In later days Percival looked back to that Christmas, as his worst and darkest time. His pride had grown morbid, and he swore to himself that he would never give in, that Horace should never know him otherwise than self-sufficient, should never think that but for Mrs. Middleton's or Godfrey Hammond's charity he might have had his cousin as a pensioner. Brooding on thoughts such as these, he sauntered moodily beneath the lamps, when the new year was but two days old.

His progress was stopped by a little crowd collected on the pavement. There was a concert, and a string of carriages stretched halfway down the street. Just as Percival came up, a girl, in white and amber, with flowers in her hair, flitted hurriedly across the path, and up the steps, and stood glancing back, while a fair-haired, faultlessly dressed young man helped her mother to alight. The father came last, sleek, stout, and important. The old people went on in front, and the girl followed with her cavalier, looking up at him, and making some bright little speech, as they vanished into the building. Percival stood and gazed for a moment, then turned round and hurried out of the crowd. The grace and freshness, and happy beauty of the girl, had roused a fierce longing in his heart. He wanted to touch a lady's hand again, to hear the delicate accents of a lady's voice. He remembered how he used to dress himself, as that fair-haired young man was dressed, and escort Aunt Harriet and Sissy to Fordborough entertainments, where the best places were always kept for the Brackenhill party. It was dull enough sometimes, yet how he longed for one such evening now. To hand the cups once again at afternoon tea, to talk just a little with some girl on the old terms of equality-the longing was not the less real, and even passionate, that it seemed to Thorne himself to be utterly absurd. He mocked at himself as he walked the streets for a couple of hours, and then went back when the concert was just over, and the people coming away. He watched till the girl appeared. She looked a little tired, he fancied. As she came out into the chill night air, she drew a soft white cloak round her, and went by, quite unconscious of the dark young man, who stood near the door, and followed her with his eyes. The sombre apparition might have startled her, had she noticed it, though Percival was only gazing at the ghost of his dead life, and, having seen it, disappeared into the shadows once more.

"The night is darkest before the morn." In Percival's case this was true, for the next day brought a new interest and hope. A letter came from Godfrey Hammond, through which he glanced wearily, till he came to a paragraph about the Lisles. Hammond had seen a good deal of them lately. "Their father treated you shamefully," he wrote; "but

after all it is harder still on his children." ("Good heavens! Does he suppose I have a grudge against them?" said Percival to himself, and laughed with mingled irritation and amazement.) "Young Lisle wants a situation as organist somewhere, where he might give lessons and make an income so, but we can't hear of anything suitable. People say the boy is a musical genius, and will do wonders; but, for my part, I doubt it. He may, however, and in that case there will be a line in his biography to the effect that I was one of the first to discern,' &c.which may be gratifying to me in my second childhood." Percival laid the letter on the table and looked up with kindling

eyes.

Only a few minutes' walk from Bellevue Street was St. Sylvester's, a large district church. The building was a distinguished example of cheap ecclesiastical work, with stripes and other pretty patterns in different coloured bricks, and varnished deal fittings, and patent corrugated roofing. All that could be done to stimulate devotion, by means of texts painted in red and blue, had been done, and St. Sylvester's, within and without, was one of those nineteenth-century churches which will doubtless be studied with interest and wonder by the architect of a future age, if they can only contrive to stand up till he comes. The incumbent was High Church, as a matter of course, and musical, more than as a matter of course. Percival looked up from his letter with a sudden remembrance that Mr. Clifton was advertising for an organist, and on his way to the office he stopped to make inquiries at the High Church bookseller's, and to post a line to Hammond. How if this should surt Bertie Lisle? He tried hard not to think too much about it, but the mere possibility that the bright young fellow, with his daydreams, his unfinished opera, his pleasant voice, and happily thoughtless talk, might come into his life, gave Percival a new interest in it. Bertie had been a favourite of his, years before, when he used to go sometimes to Mr. Lisle's. He still thought of him as little more than a boy, the boy who used to play to him in the twilight, and he had some trouble to realise that Bertie must be nearly two-and-twenty. If he should come -but most likely he would not come. It seemed a shame even to wish to shut up the young musician, with his love for all that was beautiful and bright, in that grimy town. Thorne resolved that he would not wish it, but he opened Hammond's next letter with unusual eagerness. Godfrey said they thought it sounded well, especially as when he named Brenthill it appeared that the Lisles had some sort of acquaintance living there, an old friend of their mother's, he believed, which naturally gave them an interest in the place. Bertie had written to Mr. Clifton, who would very shortly be in town, and had made an appointment to meet him.

On the first page

The next news came in a note from Lisle himself. there was a pen-and-ink portrait of the incumbent of St. Sylvester's with a nimbus, and it was elaborately dated, "Festival of St. Hilary."

"It is all as good as settled," was his triumphant announcement, "and we are in luck's way, for Judith thinks she has heard of something for herself too. You will see from my sketch that I have had my interview with Mr. Clifton. He is quite delighted with me a great judge of character, that man! He is to write to one or two references I gave him, but they are sure to be all right, for my friends have been so bored with me and my prospects for the last few weeks, that they would swear to my fitness for heaven, if it would only send me there. I rather think, however, that St. Sylvester's will suit me better for a little while. His Reverence is going to look me up some pupils, and I have bought a Churchman's Almanac, and am thinking about starting an oratorio instead of my opera. Wasn't it strange that when your letter came from Brenthill, we should remember that an old friend of my mother's lived there? Judith and she have been writing to each other ever since. Clifton is evidently undergoing tortures with the man he has got now, so I should not wonder if we are at Brenthill in a few days -it will be better for my chance of pupils, too. I shall look you up without fail, and expect you to know everything about lodgings. How about Bellevue Street? Are you far from St. Sylvester's?"

Thorne read the letter carefully, and drew from it two conclusions and a perplexity. He concluded that Bertie Lisle's elastic spirits had quickly recovered the shock of his father's failure and flight, and that he had not the faintest idea that any property of his-Percival's—had gone down in the wreck. So much the better.

66

His perplexity was-what was Miss Lisle going to do? Could the we," who were to arrive, imply that she meant to accompany her brother? And what was the something she had heard of for herself? The words haunted him. Was the ruin so complete that she, too, must face the world, and earn her own living? A sense of cruel wrong stirred in his inmost soul.

He made up his mind at last that she was coming to establish Bertie in his lodgings, before she went on her own way. He offered any help in his power, when he answered the letter; but he added a postscript, "Don't think of Bellevue Street-you wouldn't like it." He heard no more, till one day he came back to his early dinner, and found a sealed envelope on his table. It contained a half-sheet of paper, on which Bertie had scrawled in pencil, "Why did you abuse Bellevue Street? We think it will do. And why didn't you say there were rooms in this very house? We have taken them, so there is an end of your peaceful solitude. I'm going to practise for ever and ever. If you don't like it, there's no reason why you shouldn't leave-it's a free country, they say." Percival looked round his room. She had been there, then; perhaps had stood where he was standing. His glance fell on the turquoise blue vase, and the artificial flowers, and he coloured as if he were Lydia's accomplice. Had she seen those, and the Language of Flowers?

As if his thought had summoned her, Lydia herself appeared, to lay the cloth for his dinner. She looked quickly round. "Did you see your note, Mr. Thorne?"

"Thank you—yes," said Percival.

"I supposed it was right to show them in here to write it, wasn't it?" she asked, after a pause. "He said he knew you very well." "Quite right, certainly."

"A very pleasant spoken young gentleman, ain't he?" said Miss Bryant, setting down a saltcellar.

"Very," said Percival.

"Coming to play the High Church organ, he tells me," Lydia continued, as if the instrument in question were somehow saturated with Ritualism.

"Yes. At St. Sylvester's."

She went out,

Lydia looked at him, but he was gazing into the fire. came back with a dish, shook her curl out of the way, and tried again. "I suppose we're to thank you for recommending the lodgings, ain't we, Mr. Thorne? I'm sure Ma's much obliged to you. And I'm glad," this with a bashful glance, "that you felt you could. It seems as if we'd given satisfaction."

"Certainly," said Percival. "But you mustn't thank me in this case, Miss Bryant. I really didn't know what sort of lodgings my friend wanted. But of course I'm glad Mr. Lisle is coming here."

“And ain't you glad Miss Lisle is coming too, Mr. Thorne?" said Lydia, very archly. But she watched him, lynx-eyed.

He uttered no word of surprise, but he could not quite control the muscles of his face, and a momentary light leapt into his eyes. "I wasn't aware Miss Lisle was coming," he said.

Lydia believed him. "That's true," she thought, "but you're precious glad." And she added aloud, "Then the pleasure comes all the more unexpected, don't it?" She looked sideways at Percival, and lowered her voice, "P'r'aps Miss Lisle meant a little surprise."

Percival returned her glance with a grave scorn which she hardly understood. "My dinner is ready?" he said. "Thank you, Miss Bryant." And Lydia flounced out of the room, half indignant, half sorrowful. "He didn't know-that's true. But she knows what she's after very well-don't tell me!" To Lydia, at that moment, it seemed as if every girl must be seeking what she sought. "And I call it very bold of her to come poking herself where she isn't wanted-running after a young man! I'd be ashamed!" A longing to scratch Miss Lisle's face was mixed with a longing to have a good cry, for she was honestly suffering the pangs of unrequited love. It is true that it was not for the first time. The curl, the earrings, the songs, the Language of Flowers, had done duty more than once before. But wounds may be painful without being deep, although the fact of these former healings might prevent all fear of any fatal ending to this later love. Lydia was very