"So would Katherine. Of that you may be sure, my dear."

"Oh yes; she is very fond of them, especially Charlie. I do not think she is really just to Cecil."

"Real justice is rare," returned Mrs. Liddell, calmly. "There is a note for you, Ada, on the chimney-piece; it came just after you went out."

"Why, it is from Mrs. Burnett!"—pouncing on it and tearing it open. "What shall I do?" she almost screamed as she read it. "I am afraid I shall never get there in time. What o'clock is it?—my watch is never right. Half-past twelve, and luncheon is at half-past one. Oh, I must manage it! Read that, dear.—Jane! Jane! bring me some hot water immediately, and come help me to dress.—What is the cab fare to Park Terrace? Eighteenpence?—it can't be so much. Just lend me a shilling; you can take it out of the ten pounds you are to pay me next week." And she flew out of the room.

"Mrs. Liddell sat down with a sigh, and read the note which caused this excitement:

"DEAR MRS. LIDDELL,—Do help me in a dilemma! We have a box for Miss St. Germaine's benefit matinee to-morrow, and Lady Alice Mordaunt wants to come with Fanny and Bea. You know she is not out yet. Now I am engaged to go with Florence to Lady McLean's garden party at Twickenham. So may I depend on you to come and chaperon them? If it were my own girls only, they could go with Ormonde or any one. But Lady Alice is to be escorted to our house by that incarnation of propriety, Mr. Errington; so they must have a chaperon. I therefore depend on you. Luncheon at 1.30. Do not fail. Ever yours affectionately. E. BURNETT."

Mrs. Liddell folded up the epistle and placed it in its envelope; then she sat musing. How cruel it would be to break this butterfly on the wheel of bitter circumstance! It would be irrational, she thought, "to expect the strength that could submit to and endure the inevitable from her. She will at once suffer more and less than my Katie. Small exterior things will sting Ada and make her miserable. As long as Katherine's heart is satisfied all else can be borne; but her conditions are more difficult. Heigho! for material ills there is nothing so intolerable as debt." She rose and went to her room with the vague intention of doing some of the hundred and one things which needed doing, one more than another, as was usual in her busy life, but somehow the uncertainty and anxiety oppressing her heart made her incapable of continued action; she was always breaking off to think—and the more she thought, the more uneasy she grew. If she had worked out the thin vein of invention and observation which gained her her humble literary success, one source of income was gone—a source on which she had reckoned too surely. Then she had not anticipated that her daughter-in-law would be so expensive an inmate. Self-denial was a thing incomprehensible to her. As long as she took care of her clothes, and refrained from buying the very expensive garments her soul longed for, she considered herself most exemplary. As for the smaller savings of omnibus and cabs not absolutely needful, she rarely thought of such matters, or, if she did, it made her frightfully cross, and urged her to many spiteful and contemptuous remarks on girls who have the strength of a horse, and do not care what horrid places they tramp through: so that she never was able to lighten the household burdens by a farthing beyond the very small amount she had originally agreed to contribute toward them.

Her mother-in-law's meditations were interrupted by the young widow skurrying in in desperate haste. "Jane has gone for a cab," she exclaimed; "have you that shilling?"

"Here; you had better have eighteenpence, in case—"

"Oh yes, I had better; and do I look nice?"

"Very nice indeed. I think you are looking so much better than you did last year—"

"That is because I go out a little; I delight in the theatre. Now I must be off. There is the cab—oh! a horrid four-wheeler. Good-by, dear."

Mrs. Burnett was the wife of a civilian high up in the Indian service, and was herself a woman of good family. She had come home in the previous winter in order to introduce her eldest daughter to society, and accidentally meeting Mrs. Frederic Liddell, whom she had known in India, was graciously pleased to patronize her. She had taken a handsome furnished house near Hyde Park, and kept it freely open during the season. Admission to such an establishment was a sort of "open sesame" to heaven for the little widow. She loved, she adored Mrs. Burnett and her dear charming girls, to say nothing of two half-grown sons, "the most delightful boys!" She was really fond of them for the time, and it was this touch of temporary sincerity that gave her the unconscious power to hold the hearts of Mrs. Burnett and her daughters.

She was quite the pet of the family, and always at their beck and call. To keep this position she strained every means; she even denied herself an occasional pair of gloves in order to tip the stately man-servant who opened the door and opened her umbrella occasionally for her.

She found the whole party assembled in the dining-room, and her entrance was hailed with acclamations.

"I had just begun to tremble lest you should not come," cried Mrs. Burnett, stretching out her hand, but not rising from her seat at the head of the table.

"I only had your note half an hour ago," said Mrs. Liddell, with pardonable inaccuracy, feeling her spirits rise in the delightful atmosphere, flower-scented, and stirred by the laughter and joyous chatter of the "goodlie companie."

A long table set forth with all the paraphernalia of an excellent luncheon was surrounded by a merry party, the girls in charming summer toilettes, and as many men as women. Men, too, in the freshest possible attire, all "on pleasure bent."

"Do you know us all?" asked Mrs. Burnett, looking round. "Yes, I think all but Lady Alice Mordaunt and Mr. Kirby."

"I have never had the pleasure of meeting Lady Alice Mordaunt before"—with a graceful little courtesy—"but Mr. Kirby, though he has forgotten me, I remember meeting him at Rumchuddar, when I first went out to my poor dear papa. Perhaps you remember him—Captain Dunbar, at——?" Thus said Mrs. Liddell, as she glided into her seat between one of the Burnetts and a tall, big, shapeless-looking man with red hair, small sharp eyes, a yellow-ochreish complexion, and craggy temples, who had risen courteously to make room for her.

"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, turning red—a dull deep red. "I remember perfectly—that is, I don't remember you; I remember your father. I'm sure I do not know how I could have forgotten you," with a shy, admiring glance.

"Nor I either," cried Colonel Ormonde, who sat opposite. "Though Mrs. Liddell does not seem to remember me."

"Why, I only saw you yesterday, and I am sure I bowed to you as I came in." So saying, Mrs. Liddell lifted her head with a sweet caressing smile to the eldest of the Burnett boys, who himself brought her some pigeon pie; and from that moment she devoted herself to her new acquaintance, utterly regardless of the hitherto tenderly cultivated Colonel.

Kirby, a newly arrived Indian magistrate, was not given to conversation, but he was assiduous in attending to his fair neighbor's wants, and seemed to like listening to her lively remarks.

Colonel Ormonde glanced at them from time to time; he was amazed and indignant that Mrs. Liddell could attend to any one save himself. He was rather unfortunately placed between Miss Burnett, whose attention was taken up by Sir Ralph Brereton, a marriageable baronet, who sat on her other side, and Lady Alice Mordaunt, a timid, colorless, but graceful girl, still in the school-room, who scarcely spoke at all, and if she did, always to her right-hand neighbor, a stately-looking man with grave dark eyes, which saved him from being plain, and a clear colorless brown complexion. He said very little, but his voice, though rather cold, was pleasant and refined, conveying the impression that he was accustomed to be heard with attention. He too was very attentive to Lady Alice, but in a kind, fatherly way, as if she were a helpless creature under his care.

"I believe we are quite an Indian party," said Mrs. Burnett, looking down the table. "Of course my children are Indian by inheritance; then there are Mr. Kirby and Mr. Errington"—nodding to the dark man next Lady Alice—"and Colonel Ormonde."

"I am not Indian, you know; I was only quartered in India for a few years," returned Ormonde, contradictiously.

"And I was only a visitor for one season's tiger-shooting," said Brereton.

"And I do not want to go," cried Tom Burnett; "I want to be an attache."

"Oh yes; you speak so many languages!" said his younger sister.

"I certainly do not consider myself an old Indian," said the man addressed as Errington, "though I have visited it more than once."

"You an Indian!" cried Ormonde. "Why, you have just started as an English country gentleman. We are to have Errington for a comrade on the bench and in the field down in Clayshire. His father has bought Garston Hall—quite close to Melford, Lady Alice. But I suppose you know all about it."

"Yes," said Lady Alice, in a tone which might be affirmation or interrogation. "There are such pretty walks in Garston Woods!"

"Errington was born with a silver spoon in his mouth," returned Ormonde. "Garston dwarfs Castleford, I can tell you. It was a good deal out of repair—the Hall I mean?"

"It is. We do not expect to get it into thorough repair till winter. Then I hope, Mrs. Burnett, you will honor us by a visit," said Errington.

"With the greatest pleasure," exclaimed the hostess.

"And oh, Mr. Errington, do give a ball!" cried Fanny, the second daughter.

"I fear that is beyond my powers. I do not think I ever danced in my life."

"Are you to be of the party on board Lord Melford's yacht?" asked Ormonde, speaking to Lady Alice.

"Oh no. I am to stay with Aunt Harriet at the Rectory all the summer."

"Ah, that is too bad. You'd like sailing about, I dare say?"

"Oh, yachting must be the most delightful thing in the world," cried Mrs. Liddell, from her place opposite. "If I were you I should coax my father to let me go."

"Papa knows best. I am very fond of the Rectory," said Lady Alice, blushing at being so publicly addressed.

"And you understand the beauty of obedience," said Errington, with grave approval.

"Now, if you intend to see the whole 'fun of the fair,'" said Mrs. Burnett, "you had better be going, young people. The carriage is to come back for us after setting you down at the theatre. Who are going? My girls, Lady Alice, and Mrs. Liddell? Who is to be their escort? Colonel Ormonde?"

He glanced across the table. Mrs. Liddell sent no glance in his direction; she again devoted her attention to Kirby.

"No, thank you. To be intensely amused from two to six is more than I can stand; besides, I hope to meet you at Lady Maclean's this afternoon."

"I have an engagement, a business engagement at three," said Errington; "but I shall be happy to call for these ladies and see them home."

"You need not take that trouble," said Mrs. Burnett. "My son will be in the theatre later, and take charge of them; but there is still a place in the box. Will you go, Mr. Kirby?"

"Oh, pray do!" cried Mrs. Liddell. "You will be sure to be amused; a matinee of this kind is great fun. There is singing and dancing and acting and recitations of all kinds." She spoke in her liveliest manner and her sweetest tones.

"You are very good. I have not been in a theatre since I arrived; so if you really have a place for me, I shall be most happy to accompany you."

"That's settled. Go and put on your hats, my dears," said Mrs. Burnett; and her daughters, with Lady Alice, left the room.

"Well, Mrs. Liddell, have you persuaded your handsome sister-in-law to join our party on Thursday?" asked Ormonde.

"I have really had no time to speak much to her. An old uncle of hers, as rich as a Jew and a perfect miser, sent his lawyer for her this morning. I suppose he is going to make her his heiress. I hope they will give a share to my poor little boys. I am going to take them to ask a blessing from their aged relative, I assure you."

"Oh yes, by George! you try and hold on to him. The little fellows ought to have the biggest share, of course, as the nephew's children. Why, it would change your position altogether if your boys had ten or fifteen thou. between them."

"Or apiece," said Mrs. Liddell, carelessly. She was immensely amused by the Colonel's tone of deep interest. "You may be very sure I shall do my best. I know the value of money."

"May I ask where this Mr. Liddell resides?" asked Mr. Errington, joining them, with a bow to the young widow.

"I really do not know, though he is my uncle-in-law. Pray do you know him?"

"No; I know of him, but we are not personally acquainted."

"And is he not supposed to be very rich?"

"That I cannot say; but I have an idea that he is well off."

With another bow Errington retreated to say good-morning to his hostess.

"Well, whether your sister-in-law comes or not, I hope we are sure of your charming self?" said Ormonde.

"Unless I am obliged to parade my boys for their grand-uncle's inspection, I am sure to honor you."

"Of course everything must give away to that. I shall come and inquire what news soon, if I may?"

"Oh yes; come when you like."

"They are all ready, Mrs. Liddell," remarked her hostess.

Mr. Kirby offered his arm, which was accepted with a smile, and the little widow sailed away with the sense of riding on the crest of a wave. The ladies were packed into the carriage, the polite man out of livery whistled up a hansom for the two gentlemen, and the luncheon party was over.

It was a weary day to Mrs. Liddell—the dowager Mrs. Liddell, as society would have called her, only she had no dower. All she had inherited from her husband was the remnant of his debts, which she had been struggling for some years to pay off, and the care and maintenance of her boy and girl, on her own slender funds.

At present the horizon looked very dark, and she almost regretted for Katherine's sake that she had agreed to make a home for her son's widow and children. Yet what would have become of them without it?

Partly to rouse herself from her fruitless reflections, partly to relieve the house-maid, who had been doing some extra scrubbing, Mrs. Liddell took her little grandsons to Kensington Gardens, and when they had selected a place to play in she sat down with a book which she had brought in the vain hope of getting out of herself. But her sight was soon diverted from the page before her by the visions which came thronging from the thickly peopled past.

Her life had been a hard continuous fight with difficulty after the first few years of her wedded existence. She had seen her gay, pleasure-loving husband change under the iron grasp of untoward circumstances into a querulous, bitter, disappointed man, rewarding all her efforts to keep their heads above water by sarcastic complaints of her narrow stinginess, venting on her the remorseful consciousness, unacknowledged to himself, that his reverses were the result of his own reckless extravagance. Perhaps to her true heart the cruelest pain of all was the gradual dying out, or rather killing out, of the love she once bore him, the vanishing, one by one, of the illusions she cherished respecting him, till she saw the man as he really was, weak, unstable, self-indulgent, incapable of true manliness. Still she was patient with him to the last; and when she was relieved by friendly death from the charge of so wilful and ungrateful a burden—though things were easier, because hers was the sole authority—it was a constant strain to provide the education necessary for her boy. But that accomplished, she had a sweet interlude with her daughter in humble peace, and while she did her best to arm the child for the conflict of life, she avoided weakening herself by too much thought for her future. This spell of repose was broken by the necessity for sacrificing some of her small capital to set her son free from his embarrassments. Then came his death and her present experiment in house-keeping in order to give his widow and children a refuge.

For the last four or five years she had made a welcome addition to her small income by her pen, contributing to the smaller weekly periodicals stories and sketches; for Mrs. Liddell had seen much with keen, observant eyes, and had a fair share of humor. This small success had tempted her to spend several months on a three-volume novel, thereby depriving herself of present remuneration which shorter, lighter tales had brought in. She sorely feared this ambitious step was a mistake—that she had over-estimated her own powers. She feared that she could never manage to keep up the very humble establishment she had started. Above all, she feared that her own health and physical force were failing. It was such an effort to do much that formerly was as nothing. That attack of bronchitis last spring had tried her severely: she had never felt quite the same since. And if she were called away, what would become of Katherine? Never was there a dearer daughter than her Katie. She knew every turn, every light and shade in her nature—her faults, her pride and hastiness, her deep, tender heart. A sob rose in her throat at the idea of Katherine being left alone to engage single-handed in the struggle for existence. No! She would live!—she would battle on with poverty and difficulty till Katherine was a few years older; till she was stronger and better able to stand alone.

"Yet she is strong and brave for nineteen," thought the mother, proudly. "Perhaps I have kept her too much by my side. I wish I could let her pay a visit to the Mitchells. They have asked her repeatedly; but we must not think of it at present."

Here her little grandsons, who had more than once broken in upon her musings, came running across the grass to inform her they were sure it was tea-time, as they were very hungry.

"Then we shall go home," said Mrs. Liddell, immediately clearing her face of its look of gloom, and rising to accompany them, cheered by the thought that perhaps Katie's dear face might be ready to welcome her.

But neither daughter nor daughter-in-law awaited her, and a couple of hours went slowly over—slowly and wearily, for she forced herself to tell the boys a couple of thrilling tales, before they went to bed, to keep them quiet and cool. Then, with promises that both mamma and auntie should come and kiss them as soon as they returned, she dismissed the little fellows.

It was past seven when Katherine at last appeared at the garden gate.

"I am so glad you have come in before Ada," cried Mrs. Liddell, embracing her. "Are you very tired, dearest?"

"No, not nearly so tired as yesterday; and, mother dear, I think that strange old man will certainly give us the money."

"Thank God! Tell me all about your day."

"It was all very funny, but not terrible, like yesterday. My uncle seems determined to make a cook of me. He would not let them buy or prepare any food for him, except a cup of tea and some toast, until I came. How that frail old man can exist upon so little nourishment I cannot imagine; but though I seem to give him satisfaction, he does not express any. While he and Mr. Newton talked I was sent to look at the condition of the rooms upstairs. Such a condition of dust and neglect you could not conceive. Oh, the gloom and misery of the whole house is beyond description!"

"Did you get anything to eat yourself?" asked Mrs. Liddell.

"Yes; Mr. Newton, who is really kind and friendly under his cool, precise exterior, sent for some cakes. He staid a good while. I think he has a good deal of influence on Mr. Liddell. (I can hardly call him uncle.) He was more polite when Mr. Newton was present. When he was going away he said, 'I am happy to say I have convinced Mr. Liddell that you are his niece, and if you and your mother will call upon me at noon to-morrow, the loan you wish for can be arranged, if you will agree to certain conditions, which I should like to explain both to you and to Mrs. Liddell.' He gave me his card. Here it is. He has written 'twelve to one' on it."

"They must be very hard conditions if we cannot agree to them," said Mrs. Liddell, taking out her porte-monnaie and putting the card into it. "This is indeed a Godsend, Katie, dear. I am thankful you had the pluck to attack the old lion in his den."

"Lion! Hyena rather. Yet I cannot help feeling sorry for him. Think of passing away without a soul to care whether you live or die—without one pleasant memory!"

"His memories are anything but pleasant," returned Mrs. Liddell, gravely. "His wife, of whom I believe he was fond in his own way, left him when their only child, a son, was about ten years old. This seemed to turn his blood to gall. He took an unnatural dislike to his poor boy, and treated him so badly that he ran away to sea. Poor fellow? he used sometimes to write to your father. Their mutual dislike to John Liddell was a kind of bond between them. It is an unhappy story, for, as I told you, he was afterward killed at the gold diggings.

"Very dreadful!" said Katherine, thoughtfully. "What a cruel visiting of the mother's sin on the unfortunate child!—that horrible bit of the decalogue! With all his icy cold selfishness Mr. Liddell is a gentleman. His voice is refined, and except when he was carried away by hi-fury against his roguish housekeeper he seems to have a certain self-respect. After Mr. Newton went away I read for a long time all the money articles in two penny papers, for the Times had been taken away. Then I wrote a couple of letters, and all my uncle said was: 'So it seems you really are my niece. Well, I hope you know more of the value of money than either your father or mother.' I could not let that pass, and said, 'My father died when I was too young to know him; but no one could manage money better nor with greater care than my mother.' He stared at me. 'I am glad to hear it,' he returned, very dryly. He had a note from his stock-broker in reply to one I wrote for him yesterday. He seemed greatly pleased with it. He kept chuckling and murmuring, 'Just in time, just in time!'"

"Perhaps he will fancy you bring him luck."

"I am awfully afraid he will want me to go and read to him every day, for when I was directing one of the letters he said, as though to himself, 'If she can read and write for me I need not buy a new pair of spectacles.' It would be too dreadful to be with that cynical hyena every day."

"Oh, when he gets a good servant he will not want you."

"I hope not."

"Now come, you must have your supper, dear. I am sure you have earned it. We will have it quietly together before Ada comes back. I feel so relieved, I shall be able to eat now."



CHAPTER V.

"INTO THE SHADOWS."

To avoid Mrs. Frederic Liddell's almost screaming curiosity was not easy, and to appease it Kate assumed an air of frankness, saying that she believed Mr. Liddell merely wished to test her powers as secretary, and that she hoped she had not succeeded too well.

"Oh, you lazy thing! You really ought to try and get in with him. Oughtn't she, Mrs. Liddell?"

"Yes, certainly, if she can; but I fancy it will not be so easy. What are you going to do to-day, Ada?"

"Oh, nothing"—in a rather discontented tone. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I am obliged to go into town on a matter of business, and I want to take Katherine."

"Well, I will look after the boys"—condescendingly, as if it were not her legitimate business. "But I really think you worry too much about those tiresome publishers. They would think more of you if you troubled them less. Your mother looks pale and fagged, Katherine."

"Yes, she does indeed," looking anxiously at her.

"I am afraid the publishers would leave me too utterly undisturbed if I left them alone," returned Mrs. Liddell, smiling, and leaving the suggestion uncontradicted. This conversation took place at breakfast.

Mother and daughter made the journey cityward very silently, both a good deal occupied conjecturing what conditions John Liddell could possibly mean to impose. Perhaps only a very high rate of interest, which would cost no small effort to spare from their narrow income.

Mr. Newton received his visitors directly their names were sent up to him. His was an eminent firm; their offices, light, clean, well furnished, an abode which impressed those who entered with the idea of fair dealing, and forbade the notion of dark dusty corners moral or physical.

Katherine's quick eyes took in the aspect of the place: the bookshelves, where stores of legal learning in calf-bound volumes were ranged: the various brown tin boxes with names in white paint suggestive of the title-deeds "of all the land"; the big knee-hole table loaded with papers; the heavy chairs upholstered in the best leather for the patients who came to be treated; and Mr. Newton himself, more intensely cleaned up and starched than ever, in an oaken seat of mediaeval form.

He rose and set chairs for Mrs. Liddell and her daughter himself; then he rustled among his papers, and spoke down a tube.

"Ahem!" he began. "Your brother-in-law, madam, is a man of peculiar character, but by no means without discrimination. Thank you"—to a clerk who brought in a long folded paper and laid it beside him, disappearing quickly. "By no means without discrimination," repeated Mr. Newton. "Unfortunately the love of money grows on a childless man, and his terms for the loan you require may not meet your approbation."

"Pray what are they?" asked Mrs. Liddell.

"My client will accept a bill of sale on your furniture as security, but he will give you a period of eighteen months to repay him, and he will charge ten per cent.; but if you agree to another condition, which I will explain, he will be content with five per cent."

"This must be a severe condition," said Mrs. Liddell, with a slight smile.

"No; it may prove a fortunate condition," said the lawyer, with some hesitation. "In short, I have persuaded Mr. Liddell to allow me to choose him a respectable servant at fair wages. The state into which he has fallen is deplorable. I felt it my duty to remonstrate with him, and he is not averse to my influence. I therefore pressed upon him the necessity of having a better class of housekeeper, a person who could read to him and write for him, and would be above drink and pilfering."

"What did he say to that?" asked Katherine, with a bright, amused look.

"He said, very decidedly: 'I will have that girl you say is my niece to be my housekeeper and reader. She gave me the best and cheapest dinner I ever ate; her letter to my stock-broker brought me luck; and I will pay ready money for everything, so she shall not be able to leave books unpaid. If she comes I will be content with five per cent, on the loan, which must do instead of salary; and if she refuses, why, so do I.' An ungracious speech, Mrs. Liddell, but there is the condition."

"Do you mean my brother-in-law will refuse to help me if my daughter does not go to manage his house?"

"So he says."

"But did you not say at first that he would take ten per cent, without this sacrifice?"

"He said so at first; then this plan seemed to strike him, and he was very firm about it."

"It is an awful place to go to." The words burst from Katherine's lips before she could stop herself.

"I can hardly agree to such a condition as this," cried Mrs. Liddell.

"And I must urge you not to reject it," said Mr. Newton, impressively, "for the sake of your daughter and grandsons. I must point out that by refusing you not only deprive yourself of the temporary aid you require, but you cut off your daughter from all chance of winning over her uncle by the influence of her presence. Propinquity, my dear madam—propinquity sometimes works wonders; and Mr. Liddell has a great deal in his power. I would not encourage false hopes, but this is a chance you may never have again—a chance of sharing her uncle's fortune. If she refuses, he will never see her again."

Silence ensued. The choice was a grave difficulty. Mrs. Liddell looked at Katherine, and Katherine looked at the carpet.

Suddenly Katherine looked up quickly, and said, in a clear, decided voice: "I will go. I will undertake the office of secretary and housekeeper—at least until my mother pays off this loan."

"Katie, my child, how shall you be able to bear it?"

"Miss Liddell has decided wisely and well," said the lawyer. "I earnestly hope—nay, I believe—she will reap a rich reward for her self-sacrifice."

"But, Mr. Newton, I cannot consent without some reflection. I too have some conditions to impose."

"And they are?" put in Newton, uneasily.

"I cannot define them all clearly on the spur of the moment; but I must have leave to go and see my daughter whenever I choose, and she must have the right to spend one day in the week at home."

"This might be arranged," said the lawyer, thoughtfully. "Be brave, my dear madam. Sacrifice something of the present to secure future good."

"Provided we do not pay too high a price for a doubtful benefit. It will be terrible for a young girl to be the bond-slave of such a man as John Liddell."

"Well, mother, I am quite willing to undertake the task. Not that I am going to be a bond-slave, but as soon as you have paid your debt, I shall consider myself free."

"By that time, my dear young lady, I hope you will have made yourself of so much importance to your uncle that he will make it worth your while to stay," exclaimed Newton, who was evidently actuated by a friendly feeling toward both mother and daughter.

"He must bribe high, then," returned Kate, laughing.

"Then may I inform Mr. Liddell that you accept his proposition? and you are prepared to begin your duties at once! Remember he considers his acceptance of five instead of ten per cent, frees him from the necessity of paying you any salary."

"Surely the laborer is worthy of his hire," said Mrs. Liddell.

"No doubt of it, madam; but the case is a peculiar one."

Some more particulars were discussed and arranged; Mr. Newton begged Mrs. Liddell to look out for and select a servant, that Katherine might begin with some prospect of comfort. It was settled that an interview should be arranged between Mrs. Liddell and her brother-in-law on the day but one following, at which Mr. Newton was to assist, Finally she signed a paper, and received six lovely new crisp bank-notes, the magic touch of which has so marvellously reviving an effect.

Katherine slipped her arm through her mother's and pressed it lovingly as they walked to the Metropolitan station for their return journey. "Now, dear, you will have a little peace," she said.

"Dear-bought peace, my darling. I cannot reconcile myself to such a fate for you."

"Still, the money is a comfort."

"It is indeed. I will pay the rent to-day, and to-morrow I will give Ada her money. That will be an infinite relief. And still I shall have a few pounds left. Katie dear, is it not too dreadful, the prospect of eating, drinking, sleeping, and beginning di nuovo each morning in that gloomy house? How shall you bear it?"

"You shall see. If I can have a little chat with you every week I shall be able for a good deal. Then, remember, the book still remains. When that succeeds we may snap our fingers at rich uncles."

"When that time comes," interrupted her mother, "you will be tied to the poor old miser by habit and the subtle claims which pity and comprehension weave round the sympathetic."

"Oh, if I ever grow to like him it will simplify matters very much. I almost hope I may, but it is not likely. How strange it will be to live in a different house from you! How dreadfully the boys will tease you when I am away! Come; suppose we go and see the Cheerful Visitor—the editor, I mean—before we return, and then we can say we have been to a publisher. I really do not think Ada knows the difference between an editor and a publisher."

"Very likely; nor would you, probably, if you had not a mother who scribbles weak fiction."

"It is a great deal better than much that is published and paid for," said Katherine, emphatically.

"Ah! Kate, when money has long been scarce you get into a bad habit of estimating things merely at their market value. However, let us visit the Cheerful Visitor on our homeward way. Of course we must tell Ada of the impending change, but we need not explain too much."

The journey back was less silent. Both mother and daughter were oppressed by the task undertaken by the latter. But Katherine was successful in concealing the dismay with which she contemplated a residence with John Liddell. "Whatever happens, I must not seem afraid of him or be afraid of him," she thought, with instinctive perception. "I will try to do what is just and right, and leave the rest to Providence. It must be a great comfort to have faith—to believe that if you do the right thing you will be directed and assisted by God. What strength it would give! But I haven't faith. I cannot believe that natural laws will ever be changed for me, and I know that good, honest, industrious creatures die of hunger every day. No matter. Do rightly, come what may, is the motto of every true soul. I don't suppose I shall melt this old man's stony heart, but I will do my best for him. His has been a miserable life in spite of his money. There is so much money cannot buy!"

"How dreadfully late you are!" said Mrs. Frederic, querulously, when they reached home. "I really could not keep the children waiting for you, so we have finished dinner; but Maria is keeping the mutton as hot as she can for you. Dear me! how sick I am of roast mutton! but I suppose it is cheap"—contemptuously.

"Poor dear! it shall have something nice to-morrow," returned Mrs. Liddell, with her usual strong good temper.

"I suppose you are too tired, Katherine, to come with me. The band plays in Kensington Gardens to-day, and I wanted so much to go and hear it."

"I am indeed! Besides, mother has a great deal to tell you when we have had some dinner."

"Oh, indeed! Has your book been accepted, Mrs. Liddell? or has that terrible uncle of ours declared Katherine to be his heiress?"

"Have a little patience, and you shall hear everything."

"I am dying of curiosity and impatience. Here, Sarah, do bring up dinner—Mrs. Liddell is so hungry!"

The announcement that Katherine was invited to live with John Liddell created a tornado of amazement, envy, anticipation—with an undercurrent of exultant pride that they were at last recognized by the only rich man in the family—in the mind of the pretty, impressionable little widow.

"Gracious! What a grand thing for Kate! But she will be moped to death, and he will starve her. Why, Katherine, when it is known that a millionaire has adopted you his den will be besieged by your admirers. You will never be able to stand such a life for long at a time. Suppose I relieve guard every fortnight? You must let me have my innings too. Old gentlemen always like me, I am so cheerful. Then I might have the boys to see him; you know he ought to divide the property between us."

"Of course he ought. I wish he would have us alternately; it would be a great relief," said Katherine, laughing.

"I fancy he is im-mensely rich," continued Ada. "Why, Mr. Errington evidently knew his name."

"Who is Mr. Errington?" asked Mrs. Liddell, with languid curiosity.

"Did you never hear of the Calcutta Erringtons?" cried Ada, with infinite superiority. "There are as rich as Jews, and one of the greatest houses in India. Old Mr. Errington bought a fine place in the country lately, and this young man—I'm sure I don't know if he is young; he is as grave as a judge and as stiff as a poker—at all events he is an only son. I met him at the Burnett's yesterday. Well, he seemed to know Mr. Liddell's name quite well. Colonel Ormonde pricked up his ears too when I said you had gone to see him. It is a great advantage to have a rich old bachelor uncle, Katherine, but you must not keep him all to yourself."

The next few days were agitated and much occupied. Katherine went for part of each to read and write and market for the old recluse, and he grew less formidable, but not more likable, as he became more familiar. He was an extraordinary example of a human being converted into a money-making and accumulating machine. He was not especially irritable; indeed his physical powers were weak and dying of every species of starvation; but his coldness was supernatural. Fortunately for Katherine, his former housekeeper was greedy and extravagant, so that his niece's management seemed wise and economical, and she had an excellent backer-up in Mr. Newton.

The old miser was with difficulty persuaded to see his sister-in-law; but Mrs. Liddell insisted on an interview, and Mr. Newton himself supported her through the trying ordeal.

The mother's heart sank within her at she sight of the gloomy, desolate abode in which her bright daughter was to be immured; but she comforted herself by reflecting that it need not be for long.

Mr. Liddell did not rise from the easy-chair in which he sat crouched together, his thin gray locks escaping as usual from under the skull-cap, his long lean brown hands grasping the arms of his chair, when Mrs. Liddell came in; neither did he hold out his hand. He looked at her fixedly with his glittering dark eyes.

"You wanted to see me?" he said. "Why?"

"Because I thought it right to see and speak with you before committing my only child to your keeping."

"But you have done it!—She has agreed to the conditions, has'nt she?" turning to Newton. "If you go back, I must have my money back."

"Of course, my dear sir—of course," soothingly.

"I am glad that Katherine can be of use to you. I do not wish to retract anything I have agreed to, but I wish to remind you that my child is young; that you must let her go in and out, and have opportunities for air and exercise."

"She may do as she likes; she can do anything. So long as she reads to me, and buys my food without wasting my money, I don't want her company. She seems to know something of the value of money, and I'll keep her in pledge till you have paid me. I'll never let myself be cheated again, as I was by your worthless husband."

"Let the dead rest," said Mrs. Liddell, sadly. "I have paid you what I could."

"Ay, the principal—the bare principal. What is that? Do men lend for the love of lending?" he returned, viciously.

"Pray do not vex yourself. It is useless to look back—annoying and useless," said the lawyer, with decision.

"Useless indeed! What more have you to say?"

"I should like to see the room my daughter is to occupy. It is as well she should have the comforts necessary to health, for all our sakes. You will not find one who will serve you as Katherine can, even for a high price. I think you feel this yourself," said Mrs. Liddell, steadily.

"You may go where you like, but do not trouble me. You can come and see your daughter, but I shall not want to see you; and she may go and see you of a Sunday, when there are no newspapers to be read; but, mark you I will not pay for carriages or horses or omnibuses; and mark also that I have made my will, and I'll not alter it in any one's favor. Your daughter will have her food and lodging and my countenance and protection."

"She has done without these for nineteen years," said Mrs. Liddell, with a slight smile. "But you have given me very opportune help, for which I am grateful; so I have accepted your terms. Kate shall stay with you till I have paid you principal and interest, and then I warn you I shall reclaim my hostage."

"She'll be a good while with me," he said, with a sneer. "None of you—you, your husband, or your son—ever had thirty pounds to spare in your lives."

"Time will show," returned Mrs. Liddell, with admirable steadiness and temper. "Now I will bid you good-day, and take advantage of your permission to look over your house."

"Let me show you the way," said Newton. "I shall return to you presently, Mr. Liddell."

The old man bent his head. "See that the girl comes to-morrow," he said, and leaned back wearily in his chair.

The friendly lawyer led the way upstairs, and showed Mrs. Liddell a large room, half bed, half sitting, with plenty of heavy old-fashioned furniture. "This was, I think, the drawing-room," said Mr. Newton; "and having extracted permission from my very peculiar client to have the house cleaned, so far as it could be done, which it sorely needed, the person I employed selected the best of the furniture for this room. We propose to give the next room at the back to the servant. You have, I believe, found one?"

"Yes, a respectable elderly woman, of whom I have had an excellent character."

After Mrs. Liddell had visited the rooms upstairs—mere dismantled receptacles of rubbish—and they returned to what was to be Katherine's abode, she sat down on the ponderous sofa, and in spite of her efforts to control herself the tears would well up and roll over.

"I feel quite ashamed of myself," said she, in a broken voice; "but when I think of my Katie, here alone, with that cruel old man, it is too much for my strength. She has been so tenderly reared, her life, though quiet and humble, has been so cared for, so tranquil, that I shrink from the idea of her banishment here."

"It is not unnatural, my dear madam, but indeed the trial is worth enduring. Do not believe that the will of which Mr. Liddell speaks is irrevocable. He has made two or three to my certain knowledge, and it would be foolish to cut your daughter off from, any chance of sharing his fortune, which is considerable, I assure you, merely to avoid a little present annoyance."

"It would indeed. Do not think me very weak. It is a passing fit of the dolefuls. I have had much anxiety of late, and for the moment I have a painful feeling that I have sold myself and my dear daughter into the hands of a relentless creditor; that I shall never free my neck from his yoke. I shall probably feel differently to-morrow."

"I dare say you will. You are a lady of much imagination; a writer, your daughter tells me. Such an occupation should be an outlet for all imaginative terrors or anticipations, and leave your mind, your judgment, clear and free. I am sure Miss Liddell will do her uncle and herself good by her residence here. Mr. Liddell has been a source of anxiety to me and to my partners. We have, you know, been his legal advisers for years, and to know that he is in good hands will be a great relief. Rely on my—on our doing our best to assist your daughter in every way."

Mrs. Liddell, perceiving the friendly spirit which actuated the precise lawyer, thanked him warmly, and after a little further discussion of details, took her way home.

From the step she had voluntarily taken there was no retreat, nor, to do her justice, was Katherine Liddell in the least disposed to turn back, having once put her hand to the plough. Indeed the blessed castle-building powers of youth disposed her to rear airy edifices as regarded the future, which lightened the present gloom. Suppose John Liddell were to soften toward her, and make her a handsome present occasionally, or forgive this debt to her mother? What a delightful reward this would be for her temporary servitude! But though Katherine really amused herself with such fancies, they never crystallized into hope. Hope still played round her mother's chance of success with the publishers. Not that she fancied her dear mother a genius; on the contrary, because she was her mother, she probably undervalued her work; but she knew that hundreds of stories printed and paid for lacked the common-sense and humor of Mrs. Liddell's.

How ardently she longed to give her mother something of a rest after the burden and heat of the day, which she had borne so well and so long—a spell of peaceful twilight before the gray shadows of everlasting darkness closed, or the brightness of eternal light broke upon her! Yes, she would stand four-square against the steely terrors of John Liddell's cold egotism and penuriousness, against the desolation and gloom of his forbidding abode, the crushing sordidness of an existence reduced to the merest straws of sustenance, provided she could lighten her mother's load—perhaps secure her future ease; and she would do her task well, thoroughly, keeping a steady heart and a bright face. Then, should the tide ever turn, what deep draughts of pleasure she would drink! Katherine was not socially ambitious; finery and grandeur as such did not attract her; but real joys, beauty and gayety, the company of pleasant people, i.e. people who suited her, graceful surroundings, becoming clothes, and plenty of them, all were dear and delightful to her.

Some of these things she had tasted when she lived with her mother in the German and Italian towns where she had been chiefly educated; the rest she was satisfied to imagine. Above all, she loved to charm those with whom she associated—loved it in a half-unconscious way. Were it to a poor blind beggar woman, or a little crossing sweeper, she would speak as gently and modulate her voice as carefully as to the most brilliant partner or the greatest lady. This might be tenderness of nature, or the profound instinct to win liking and admiration. As yet it was quite instinctive; but if hurt or offended she could feel resentment very vividly, and was by no means too ready to forgive.

Unfortunately she started with a strong prejudice against her uncle, and sometimes rehearsed in her own mind exceedingly fine speeches which she would have liked to address to her miserly relative on the subject of his cruelty to his son, his avarice, his egotism.

Still a strain of pity ran through her meditations. Was life worth living, spent as his was? How far had his nature been warped by his wife's desertion?

It was an extraordinary experience to Katherine, this packing up of her belongings to quit her home. She took as little as she could help, to keep up the idea that she was entering on a very temporary engagement; besides, as she meant to adhere rigidly to her right of a weekly visit to her mother, she could always get what she wanted.

After Mrs. Liddell, Katherine found it hardest to part with the boys, specially little Charlie, whose guardian and champion she had constituted herself. Her sister-in-law had rather an irritating effect upon her, of which she was a little ashamed, and whenever she had spoken sharply, which she did occasionally, she was ready to atone for it by doing some extra service, so that, on the whole, the pretty little widow got a good deal more out of her sister than out of her mother-in-law.

But meditations, resolutions, regrets, and preparations notwithstanding, the day of Katherine's departure arrived. It was a bright, glowing afternoon, and the Thursday fixed for the boating party. Mrs. Liddell junior had expended much eloquence to no purpose, as she well knew it would be, in trying to persuade her sister-in-law to postpone the commencement of what the little widow was pleased to call her "penal servitude," and accompany her to Twickenham.

She departed, however, without her, looking her very best, and uttering many promises to come and see Katie soon, to try her powers of pleasing on that dreadful old uncle of ours, to bring the dear boys, and see if they would not cut out their aunty, etc.

Mrs. Liddell and her daughter were most thankful to have the last few hours together, and yet they said little, and that chiefly respecting past days which they had enjoyed together—little excursions on the Elbe or in the neighborhood of Florence; a couple of months once passed at Siena, which was a mental epoch to Katherine, who was then about fifteen; promises to write; and tender queries on the mother's side if she had remembered this or that.

The little boys clung to her, Charlie in tears, Cecil very solemn. Both had taken up the sort of camera-obscura image of their elders' views which children contrive to obtain so mysteriously without hearing anything distinct concerning them, and both considered "Uncle John" a sort of modern ogre, only restrained by the policeman outside from making a daily meal of the nearest infant school, and sure to gobble up aunty some day. Charlie trembled at the thought; Cecil pondered profoundly how, by the judicious arrangement of a trap-door in the middle of his room, he might carry out the original idea of Jack the Giant-Killer.

"Pray don't think of coming with me, mother," said Katherine, seeing Mrs. Liddell take out her bonnet. "I could not bear to think of your lonely drive back. Trust me to myself. I am not going to be either frightened or cast down, and I will write to-morrow."

"Then I must let you go, darling! On Sunday next, Katie, we shall see you."

A long, fond embrace, and Mrs. Liddell was indeed alone.



CHAPTER VI.

"SHIFTING SCENES."

Parting is often worst to those who stay behind. Imagination paints the trials and difficulties of the one who has put out to sea as far worse than the reality, while variety and action brace the spirit of him who goes forth.

Katherine's reception, however, was paralyzing enough.

Nothing was in her favor save the mellow brightness of the fine warm evening, though from its south-east aspect the parlor at Legrave Crescent was already in shadow. There, in his usual seat beside the fire—for, though a miser, John Liddell had a fire summer and winter—sat the old man watching the embers, in himself a living refrigerator.

"You are late!" was his greeting, in a low, cold voice. "I have been expecting you. The woman Newton found for me has been up and down with a dozen questions I cannot answer. I must be saved from this; I will not be disturbed. Go and see what she wants; then, if there is more food to be cooked, come to me for money. Mark! no more bills. I will give you what cash you want each day, so long as you do not ask too much."

"Very well. Your fire wants making up, uncle." She brought out this last word with an effort. "I suppose I am to call you uncle?"

"Call me what you choose," was the ungracious reply.

In the hall she found the new servant, whom she had already seen, waiting her orders. She was a stout, good-humored woman of a certain age, with vast experience, gathered in many services, and partly tempted to her present engagement by the hope that in so small a household her labor would be light.

"Will you come up, miss, and see if your room is as you like it?" was her first address. "I'm sure I am glad you have come! I've been groping in the dark, in a manner of speaking, since I came yesterday; and Mr. Liddell, he's not to be spoke to. Believe me, miss, if it wasn't that I promised your mar, and saw you was a nice young lady yourself, wild horses wouldn't keep me in such a lonesome barrack of a place!"

"I hope you will not desert us, Mrs. Knapp," returned Katherine, cheerfully. "If you and I do our best, I hope the place will not be so bad."

"Well, it didn't ought to," returned Mrs. Knapp. "There's lots of good furniture everywhere but in the kitchen, and that's just for all the world like a marine store!"

"Is it?" exclaimed Katherine, greatly puzzled by the metaphor. "At all events you have made my room nice and tidy." This conversation, commenced on the staircase, was continued in Katherine's apartment.

"It ain't bad, miss; there's plenty of room for your clothes in that big wardrobe, and there's a chest of drawers; but Lord, 'm, they smell that musty, I've stood them open all last night and this morning, but they ain't much the better. I didn't like to ask for the key of the bookcase, but I can see through the glass the books are just coated with dust," said Mrs. Knapp.

"We must manage all that by-and-by," said Katherine. "Have you anything in the house? I suppose my uncle will want some dinner."

"I gave him a filleted sole with white sauce, and a custard pudding, at two o'clock, and he said he wanted nothing more. I had no end of trouble in getting half a crown out of him, and he had the change. If the gentleman as I saw with your mar, miss, hadn't given me five shillings, I don't know where I should be."

"I will ask my uncle what he would like for dinner or supper, and come to you in the kitchen afterward."

Such was Katherine's inauguration.

She soon found ample occupation. Not a day passed without a battle over pennies and half-pennies. Liddell gave her each morning a small sum wherewith to go to market; he expected her to return straight to him and account rigidly for every farthing she had laid out, to enter all in a book which he kept, and to give him the exact change. These early expeditions into the fresh air among the busy, friendly shopkeepers soon came to be the best bit of Katherine's day, and most useful in keeping up the healthy tone of her mind. Then came a spell of reading from the Times and other papers. Every word connected with the funds and money matters generally, even such morsels of politics as effected the pulse of finance, was eagerly listened to; of other topics Mr. Liddell did not care to hear. A few letters to solicitor or stock-broker, some entries in a general account-book, and the forenoon was gone. Friends, interests, regard for life in any of its various aspects, all were nonexistent for Liddell. Money was his only thought, his sole aspiration—to accumulate, for no object. This miserliness had grown upon him since he had lost both wife and son. Fortunately for Katherine, his ideas of expenditure had been fixed by the comparatively liberal standard of his late cook. When, therefore, he found he had greater comfort at slightly less cost he was satisfied.

But his satisfaction did not prompt him to express it. His nearest approach to approval was not finding fault.

In vain Katherine endeavored to interest him in some of the subjects treated of in the papers. He was deaf to every topic that did not bear on his self-interest.

"There is a curious account here of the state of labor in Manchester and Birmingham; shall I read it to you?" asked Katherine, one morning, after she had toiled through the share list and city article. She had been about a fortnight installed in her uncle's house.

"No!" he returned; "what is labor to me? We have each our own work to do."

"But is there nothing else you would care to hear, uncle?" She had grown more accustomed to him, and he to her; in spite of herself, she was anxious to cheer his dull days—to awaken something of human feeling in the old automaton.

"Nothing! Why should I care for what does not concern me? You only care for what touches yourself; but because you are young, and your blood runs quick, many things touch you."

"Did you ever care for anything except—except—" Katherine pulled herself up. The words "your money" were on her lips.

"I cannot remember, and I do not wish to look back. I suppose, now, you would like to be driving about in a fine carriage, with a bonnet and feathers on your head. I suppose you are wishing me dead, and yourself free to run away from your daily tasks in this quiet house, to listen to the lying tongue of some soft-spoken scoundrel, as foolish women will; but the longer I live the better for you, till your mother's debt is paid, or my executors will give her a short shrift and scant time."

"I don't want you to die, Uncle Liddell," said Katherine, with simple sincerity, "but I wish there was anything I could do to interest you or amuse you. I am sorry to see you so dull. Why, you are obliged to sleep all the afternoon!"

"Amuse me?" he returned, with infinite scorn. "You need not trouble yourself. I have thoughts which occupy me of which you have no idea, and then I pass from thoughts to dreams—grand dreams!"—he paused for a moment. "Where is that pile of papers that lay on the chair there?" he resumed, sharply.

"I have taken them away upstairs; when I have collected some more I am going to sell them. My mother always sells her waste paper—one may as well have a few pence for them."

"Did you mother say so?" with some animation—then another pause. "Are you going to see her on Sunday?"

"Not next Sunday," returned Katherine, quite pleased to draw him into conversation. "You know we must let Mrs. Knapp go out every alternate Sunday, and you cannot be left alone."

"Why not? Am I an imbecile? Am I dying? I can tell you I have years of life before me yet."

"I dare say; still, it is my duty to stay here in case you want anything. But I shall go home on Saturday afternoon instead, if you have no objection."

"You would not heed my objections if I had any. You are self-willed, you are resolute. I see things when I care to look. There, I am very tired! You will find some newspapers in my room; you can add them to the others. How soon will dinner be ready?" Katherine felt herself dismissed.

The afternoons were much at her own disposal; and as she found a number of old books, some of which greatly interested her, she managed to accomplish a good deal of reading, and even did a little dreaming. Still, though time seemed to go so slowly, the weeks, on looking back, had flown fast.

The monotony was terrible; but a break was at hand which was not quite unexpected.

The day following the above conversation, Katherine had retired as usual after dinner to write to a German friend with whom she kept up a desultory correspondence; the day was warm, and her door being open, the unwonted sound of the front door-bell startled her.

"Who could it possibly be?" asked Katherine of herself. The next minute a familiar voice struck her ear, and she quickly descended to the front parlor.

There an appalling sight met her eyes. In the centre of the room, her back to the door, stood Mrs. Fred Liddell, a little boy in either hand—all three most carefully attired in their best garments, and making quite a pretty group.

Facing them, Mr. Liddell sat upright in his chair, his lean, claw-like hands grasping the arms, his eyes full of fierce astonishment.

"You see, my dear sir, as you have never invited me, I have ventured to come unasked to make your acquaintance, and to introduce my dear boys to you; for it is possible you have sent me a message by Katherine which she has forgotten to deliver; so I thought—" Thus far the pretty little widow had proceeded when the children, catching sight of their auntie, sprang upon her with a cry of delight.

"Who—who is this?" asked Mr. Liddell, compressing his thin lips and hissing out the words.

"My brother's widow, Mrs. Fred Liddell," returned Katherine, who was kissing and fondling her nephews.

"Did you invite her to come here?"

"No, uncle."

"Then explain to her that I do not receive visitors, especially relations, who have no claims upon me, and—and I particularly object to children."

"I shall take my sister-in-law to my room for a little rest," returned Katherine, wounded by his manner, though greatly vexed with Ada for coming.

"Ay, do, anywhere you like."

But Mrs. Fred made a gallant attempt to stand her ground.

"My dear sir, you must not be so unkind as to turn me out, when I have taken the trouble to come all this way on purpose to make your acquaintance. Let Katherine take away the children by all means—some people are worried with children—but let me stay and have a little talk with you."

Mr. Liddell's only reply was to rise up. Gaunt, bent, his gray locks quivering with annoyance, and leaning on his stick, he slowly walked to the door, his eyes fixed with a cold glare on the intruder. At the door he turned, and addressing Katherine, said, "Let me know when she is gone;" then he disappeared into the hall.

Little Charlie burst into tears. Cecil cried out, "You are a nasty, cross old man"; while Mrs. Fred grew very red, and exclaimed: "I never saw such a bear in all my life! Why, a crossing-sweeper would have better manners! I am astonished at you, Katie. How can you live with such a creature? But some people would do anything for money."

"I am dreadfully sorry," said Katherine; "do come up to my room. If you had only told me you were coming I should have advised you against it. You must rest a while in my room."

"I really do not think I will sit down in this house after the way in which I have been treated," said the irate widow, while she followed her sister-in-law upstairs.

"Oh yes, do, mammy; I want to see the house," implored Cecil.

"Why did you not tell me what a dreadful man he is, Katherine, and I should not have put myself in the way of being insulted?"

"I think I told you enough to keep you away, Ada. What put it into your head to come?"

"I scarcely know. I always intended it, and Colonel Ormonde said it was my duty to let him, Mr. Liddell, see the boys. I really did not want to come."

"I wish Colonel Ormonde would mind his own affairs," cried Katherine. "I fancy he only talks for talking's sake."

"That is all you know," indignantly; "he is a very clever man of the world, and I am fortunate in having such a friend to interest himself in me."

"Oh, well, perhaps so. At all events, I am very glad to see the bays, and—you too, Ada. Charlie is very pale. Come here, Charlie."

"Oh, auntie, is this your own, own room? Does the cross old man ever come here? Are all those books yours—and the funny little table with the crooked legs? Who is the man in a wig?" cried Cecil. "Mightn't we stay with you? we would be so quiet? Mother says we are dreffully troublesome since you went away. We could both sleep with you in that great big bed! The cross old gentleman would never know. It would be such fun! Do, do, let us stay, auntie!"

"But I am afraid of the old gentleman," whispered the younger boy. "Does he ever hurt you, auntie dear? I wish you would come home."

"Charlie is such a coward," said Cecil, with contempt.

"Don't talk nonsense, children," exclaimed their mother, peremptorily. "I should die of fright if I thought you were left behind with that ogre. I wouldn't sacrifice my children for the sake of filthy lucre."

"Do not talk nonsense, Ada?" said Katherine, impatiently. "I am infinitely distressed that my uncle should have behaved so rudely, but he is really eccentric, and if you had consulted—"

"He is the boys' uncle as well as yours," interrupted Ada, indignantly. "Why should they not come and see him? How was I to suppose he was such an unnatural monster?"

"I always told you he was very peculiar."

"Peculiar! that is a delicate way of putting it. If I were you I should be ashamed of wasting my time and my youth acting servant to an old miser who will not leave you a sou!"

"No, I don't suppose he will," returned Katherine, quietly. "Still, I am not the least ashamed of what I am doing; I am quite satisfied with my own motives."

"Oh, you are always satisfied with yourself, I know," was the angry answer, "But"—with a slight change of tone—"I am sorry to see you look so pale and ill, though you deserve it."

"Never mind, Ada. Take off your bonnet and sit down. I will get you a cup of tea."

"Tea! no, certainly not! Do you think me so mean as to taste a mouthful of food in this house after being ordered out of it?"

"Oh, I am so hungry!" cried Cecil, in mournful tones.

"You are a little cormorant: Grannie will give you nice tea when we get home. Put on your gloves, children, I shall go at once."

"Do come back with us, auntie," implored the boys. "Grannie wants you ever so much."

"Not more than I want her," returned Katherine. "How is she, Ada?"

"Oh, very well; just the same as usual. People who are not sensitive have a great deal to be thankful for. I feel quite upset by this encounter with your amiable relative, so I will say good-by."

"Oh, wait for me; I will come with you. Let me put on my hat and tell Mr. Liddell I am going out."

"Of course you must ask the master's leave!"

"Exactly," returned Katherine, good-humoredly. And she put on her hat and gloves.

"Well, I shall be glad of your guidance, for I hardly know my way back to where the omnibus starts. Such a horrible low part of the town for a man of fortune to live in! I wonder what Colonel Ormonde would say to it?"

"I am sure I don't know," returned Kate, laughing. "Now come downstairs. If you go on I will speak to my uncle, and follow you."

"I am sorry you have been annoyed," said Katherine, when having tapped at the door, Mr. Liddell desired her to "come in." He was standing at an old-fashioned bureau, the front of which let down to form a writing-desk and enclosed a number of various-sized drawers. He had taken out several packets of paper neatly tied with red tape and seemed to be rearranging them.

"I am going to take my sister-in-law back to the omnibus; you may be sure she will never intrude again."

"She shall not," he replied, turning to face her. Katherine thought how ghastly pale and pinched he looked. "I see the sort of creature she is—a doll that would sell her sawdust soul for finery and glitter; ay, and the lives of all who belong to her for an hour of pleasure."

Katherine was shocked at his fierce, uncalled-for bitterness.

"She has lived with us for more than a year and a half, and we have found her very pleasant and kind. Her children are dear, sweet things. You should not judge her so harshly."

"You are a greater fool than I took you for," cried Mr. Liddell. "Go take them away, and mind they do not come back."

Katherine hastened after her visitors and led them by a more direct route than they had traversed in coming. It took them past a cake shop, where she spent one of her few sixpences in appeasing her nephews' appetite, which, at least, with Cecil, grew with what it fed upon, in the matter of cakes.

The children, each holding one of her hands, chattered away, telling many particulars of grannie and Jane, and the cat, to say nothing of a most interesting gardener who came to cut the grass. To all of which Katherine lent a willing ear. How ardently she longed to be at home with the dear mother again! She had never done half enough for her. Ah, if they only could be together again in Florence or Dresden as they used to be!

Mrs. Fred Liddell kept almost complete silence—a very unusual case with her—and only as she paused before following her little boys into the omnibus did she give any clew to the current of her thoughts. "Should Colonel Ormonde come on Saturday when you are with us—which is not likely—do not say anything about that horrid old man's rudeness; one does not like to confess to being turned out."

"Certainly not. I shall say nothing, you may be sure."

"Good-by, then. I shall tell your mother you are looking wretchedly."

"Pray do not," cried Katherine, but the conductor's loud stamping on his perch to start the driver drowned her voice.

It was a fine evening, fresh, too, with a slight crispness, and Katherine could not resist the temptation of a walk in Regent's Park. She felt her spirits, which had been greatly depressed, somewhat revived by the free air, the sight of grass and trees. Still she could not answer the question which often tormented her, "If my mother cannot sell her book, how will it all end—must I remain as a hostage forever?" It was a gloomy outlook.

She did not allow herself to stray far; crossing the foot-bridge over the Regent's Canal, she turned down a street which led by a circuit toward her abode. It skirted Primrose Hill for a few yards, and as she passed one of the gates admitting to the path which crosses it, a gentleman came out, and after an instant's hesitation raised his hat. Katherine recognized the man who had rescued Cecil at Hyde Park Corner. She smiled and bowed, frankly pleased to meet him again; it was so refreshing to see a bright, kindly face—a face, too, that looked glad to see her.

"May I venture to inquire for my little friend?" said the gentleman, respectfully. "I trust he was not the worse for his adventure?"

"Not at all, thanks to your promptness," said Katherine, pausing. "I have only just parted with him and his mother. She would have been very glad of an opportunity to thank you."

"So slight a service scarcely needs your thanks," he said, in a soft, agreeable voice, as he turned and walked beside her.

Katherine made no objection; she knew he was an acquaintance of Colonel Ormonde, and it was too pleasant a chance of speaking to a civilized human being to be lost. Her new acquaintance was good-looking without being handsome, with a peculiarly happy expression, and honest, kindly light-brown eyes. He was about middle height, but well set up, and carried himself like a soldier.

"Then your little charge does not live with you?" he asked.

"Not now. I am staying with my uncle. Cecil lives with his mother and mine at Bayswater."

"Indeed! I think my old friend, Colonel Ormonde, knows the young gentleman's mother."

"He does."

"Then, may I introduce myself to you? My name is Payne—Gilbert Payne."

"Oh, indeed!" returned Katherine, with a vague idea that she ought not perhaps to walk with him, yet by no means inclined to dismiss a pleasant companion.

"I fancy your young nephew is a somewhat rebellious subject."

"He is sometimes very troublesome, but you cannot help liking him."

"Exactly—a fine boy. What bewildering little animals children are! They ought to teach us humility, they understand us so much better than we understand them."

"I believe they do, but I never thought of it before. Have you little brothers and sisters who have taught you this?"

"No. I am the youngest of my family; but I am interested in a refuge for street children, and I learn much there."

"That is very good of you," said Katherine, looking earnestly at him. "Where is it—near this?"

"No; a long way off. There are plenty of such places in every direction. I have just come from a home for poor old women, childless widows, sickly spinsters, who cannot work, and have no one to work for them. If you have any spare time, it would be a great kindness to go and read to them now and then. The lees of such lives are often sad and tasteless."

"I should be glad to help in any way," said Katherine, coloring, "but just now I belong (temporarily) to my uncle, who is old, and requires a good deal of reading—and care."

"Ah, I see your work is cut out for you: that, of course, is your first duty."

The conversation then flowed on easily about street arabs and the various missions for rescuing them, about soldiers' homes, and other kindred topics. Katherine was much interested, and taken out of herself; she was quite sorry when on approaching Legrave Crescent she felt obliged to pause, with the intention of dismissing him. He understood. "Do you live near this?" he asked.

"Yes, quite near."

"May I bring you some papers giving you an account of my poor old women?"

"I should like so much to have them," said Katherine. "But my uncle is rather peculiar. He does not like to be disturbed; he does not like visitors; he was vexed because my sister-in-law and the children came to-day."

"I understand, and will not intrude. But should you be able and willing to help these undertakings, Colonel Ormonde will always know my address. He honors me still with his friendship, though he thinks me a moon-struck idiot."

"Because you are good. The folly is his," said Katherine, warmly. Then she bowed, Mr. Payne lifted his hat again, and they parted, not to meet for many a day.

When Mrs. Knapp opened the door she looked rather grave, but Katherine's mind was so full of her encounter with Gilbert Payne that she did not notice it, seeing which, Mrs. Knapp said, "I'm glad you have come in, miss."

"Why?" with immediate apprehension. "Is my uncle ill?"

"He is not right, miss. I took him up his cup or tea and slice of dry toast about five, and he was lying back, as he often does, asleep, as I thought, in the chair. I says, 'Here's your tea, sir,' but he made no answer, and I spoke again twice without making him hear; then I touched his hand; it was stone cold; so I got water and dabbed his brow, when he sat up all of a sudden, and swore at me for making him cold and damp with my—I don't like to say the word—rags. Then he shivered and shook like an aspen; but I made up the fire and popped a spoonful of brandy in his tea—he never noticed. But he kept asking for you, miss. I think he doesn't know he was bad."

Katherine hastened to her uncle, greatly distressed at having been absent at the moment of need. In her eagerness she committed the mistake of asking how he felt now, and received a tart reply. There was nothing the matter with him, nothing unusual—only his old complaint, increasing years and infirmity; still he was not to be treated like a helpless baby.

Katherine felt her error, and turned the subject; then, returning to it, begged him to see a doctor. This he refused sternly. Finally she had recourse to an article on the revenue in the paper, which soothed him, and she saw the old man totter off to bed with extreme uneasiness, yet not daring even to suggest a night light, so irritable did he seem.

Before she slept she wrote a brief account of what had occurred to Mr. Newton, and implored him to come and remonstrate with his client.



CHAPTER VII.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

Katherine Liddell had never spent so uneasy a night, save when her mother had been ill. Her nerves were on the stretch, her ears painfully watchful for the smallest sound. What if the desolate old man should pass away, alone and unaided, in the darkness of night! The sense of responsibility was almost too much for her. If she could have her mother at her side she would fear nothing. She was up early, thankful to see daylight, and eager for Mrs. Knapp's report of her uncle.

Generally the old man was afoot betimes, and despised the luxury of warm water. This morning Mrs. Knapp had to knock at his door, as he was not moving, and after a brief interview returned to inform Katherine that Mr. Liddell grumbled at her for being up too early, and on hearing that it was half past eight, said she had better bring him a cup of tea.

Katherine carried it to him herself. He took very little notice of her, but said he would get up presently and hear the papers read.

When she came back with some jelly, for which she had sent to the nearest confectioner, he ate it without comment, and told her she might go.

It was a miserable morning, but about noon, to her great delight, she saw Mr. Newton opening the garden gate. She flew to admit him.

"I am so thankful you have come!"

"How is Mr. Liddell?"

"He seems quite himself this morning, except that he is inclined to stay in bed."

"He must see a doctor," said Mr. Newton, speaking in a low voice and turning into the parlor. "We must try and keep him alive and in his senses for every reason. I am glad he is still in bed; it will give me an excuse for urging him to take advice, for of course I shall not mention your note."

"No pray do not. He evidently does not like to be thought ill."

"Pray how long have you been here—nearly a month? Yes, I thought so. I cannot compliment you on your looks. How do you think you have been getting on with our friend?"

"Not very well, I fear," said Katherine, shaking her head. "He rarely speaks to me, except to give some order or ask some necessary question. Yet he does not speak roughly or crossly, as he does to Mrs. Knapp; and something I cannot define in his voice, even in his cold eyes, tells me he is growing used to my presence, and that he does not dislike it."

"Well, I should think not, Miss Liddell," said the precise lawyer, politely. "I trust time may be given to him to recognize the claims of kindred and of merit. Pray ask him if he will see me, and in the mean time please send a note to Dr. Brown—a very respectable practitioner, who lives not far; ask him to come at once. I must persuade Mr. Liddell to see him, and if possible while I am present."

The old man showed no surprise at Mr. Newton's presence; it was almost time for his monthly visit, and as he brought a small sum of money with him, the result of some minor payments, he was very welcome.

Katherine, immensely relieved, sat trying to work in the front parlor, but really watching for the doctor. Would her uncle see him? and if not, ought she still to undertake the responsibility of such a charge?

At last he arrived, a staid, thoughtful-looking man; and before he had time to do more than exchange a few words with her, Mr. Newton appeared and carried him off to see the patient.

They seemed a long time gone; and when they returned the doctor wrote a prescription—a very simple tonic, he said. "What your uncle needs, Miss Liddell," he said, "is constant nourishment. He is exceedingly weak; the action of the heart is feeble, the whole system starved. You must get him to take all the food you can, and some good wine—Burgundy if possible. He had better get up. There is really no organic disease, but he is very low. He ought to have some one in his room at night."

"It will be difficult to manage that," said Mr. Newton.

"I shall look in to-morrow about this time," said the doctor, and hurried away.

"How have you contrived to make him hear reason?" asked Katherine, eagerly.

"I took the law into my own hands, for one thing, and I suggested a powerful motive for living on. I reminded him that he and another old gentleman are the only survivors in a 'Tontine,' and that he must try to outlive him. So the cost of doctor, medicine, etc., etc., ought to be considered as an investment. Do not fail to get him all possible nourishment. If he rebels, send for me."

"I will indeed. I am almost afraid to stay here alone. Might I not have my mother with me?"

"Do not think of it"—earnestly. "I was going to say that I believe you are decidedly gaining on your uncle; but the intrusion of Mrs. Frederic Liddell yesterday was very unfortunate. My rather peculiar client is impressed with the idea that you invited her."

"Indeed I did not!" cried Katherine.

"I did not suppose you did, but her appearance seems to have given Mr. Liddell a shock." Mr. Newton paused, and then asked in a slow tone, as if thinking hard, "What was your sister-in-law's maiden name?"

"Sandford," said Katherine.

"Sandford? That is rather a curious coincidence. The late Mrs. John Liddell was a Miss Sandford."

"Is she dead, then?"

"Yes; she died eight or nine years ago."

"Could they have been related?"

"Possibly. Some likeness seems to have struck your uncle."

There was a short silence, and Mr. Newton resumed. "I trust you do not find your stay here too trying? I consider it very important that you should persevere, though it is only right to tell you that Mr. Liddell has made a will—not a just one, in my opinion—and it is extremely unlikely he will ever change it."

"That does not really affect me. Of course I should be very glad if he chose to leave anything to my mother or myself, but I shall do my best for him under any circumstances. Besides, I have a sort of desire to make him speak to me and like me—perhaps it is vanity—quite apart from a sense of duty. He is so like a frozen man!"

"Try, try by all means, my dear young lady."

"What I do not like is the hour or half hour after market. The wolfish greed by which he clutches the change I bring back, the glare in his eyes, the fierce eagerness with which he asks the price of everything—he is not human at such times, and I almost fear him."

"It is a dreadful picture, but perhaps the details may soften in time."

"How shall I get money for all he wants?" asked Katherine, anxiously.

"I shall impress upon Mr. Liddell the necessity of his case, and even make out that the good things he requires cost more than they do. I will beg him to allow me to supply the money during his indisposition and enter it in his account. Here, I will give you five pounds while we are alone."

"Thank you so much! You see I dare not get into debt. I will keep a careful account of all expenditure, and ask him—my uncle, I mean—not to give me any money, then there will be no confusion.

"Very well. I will go back to him now. He will be almost ready to come in here. Write to me frequently. I shall try to look in to-morrow for a few minutes."

Katherine stirred the fire, and placed a threadbare footstool before the invalid's easy-chair, thanking Heaven in her heart for sending her such an ally as the friendly lawyer.

Then Mr. Liddell appeared, leaning on Newton's arm, and not looking much worse than usual, Katherine thought. He took no notice of her until she put the footstool under his feet; then, wonderful to relate, he looked down into her grave, kindly face and smiled, not bitterly or cynically, but as if, on the whole, pleased to see her. He seemed a little breathless, yet he soon began to speak to Newton as if in continuation of their previous conversation—"And is Fergusson really a year younger than I am?"

"Yes, quite a year, I should say, and he takes great care of himself. I do not think he has really so good a constitution as you have, but he takes everything that is strengthening—good wine, turtle soup, and I do not know what."

"Ah, indeed!" returned Mr. Liddell, thoughtfully.

"I have been explaining to Mr. Liddell," said the lawyer, turning to Katherine, "that it would be well to let me give you the house-keeping money for the present, so that he need not be troubled about anything except to get well; and when well, my dear sir, you really must go out. Fresh air—"

"Fresh fiddle-sticks," interrupted the old man; "I have been well for years without going out, and I'll not begin now. I'll give in to everything else; only, if I am obliged to take costly food as a medicine, I expect the rest of the household to live as carefully as ever."

"I shall do my best, uncle," said Katherine, softly.

After a little more conversation the lawyer took his leave, and then Katherine applied herself to read the papers which had been neglected.

It was not till toward evening she was able to write a few lines to her mother describing Mr. Liddell's illness, and begging she would come to see her on Saturday, as she (Katherine) could not absent herself while her uncle was so unwell.

After this things went on much as usual, only Mr. Liddell never resumed his habits of early rising; he was a shade less cold too, though at times terribly irritable.

He took the food prepared for him obediently enough, but with evident want of appetite, rarely finishing what was provided.

Mr. Newton generally called every week, and Katherine wrote to him besides; she was strict in insisting on the audit of her accounts, which the accurate lawyer sometimes praised. By judicious accounts of Fergusson, the other surviving member of the Tontine, he managed to keep his client in tolerable order. Katherine, though grateful to him for his friendly help, little knew how strenuously he strove to lengthen the old miser's days, hoping he would make some provision for his niece, while he dared not offer any suggestion on the subject, lest it should produce an effect contrary to what he desired.

Mrs. Fred Liddell was bitterly disappointed by the result of her visit to the rich uncle. A good deal, indeed, hung upon it. A wealthy succession was certainly a thing to be devoutly wished for in itself, but the sharp little widow felt that provision for her boys and a dowry for herself meant marriage, if she chose, with Colonel Ormonde.

And she very decidedly did wish it. Her imagination, which was vivid enough of its kind, was captivated by the Colonel's imposing "bow-wow" manner, the idea of a country place—an old family place too—by his diamond ring and florid compliments, his self-satisfied fastidiousness and his social position. In short, to her he seemed a fashionable hero; but she was quite sure he never would hamper himself with two little portionless boys. Ada Liddell was by no means unkind to her children; she was ready to pet them when they met, and give them what did not cost her too much; but she considered them a terrible disadvantage, and herself a most generous and devoted mother.