THE young ladies of Aspen Court, once more at home, where, by the way, their reception by the Earl of Rookbury was so fatherly in its earnest anxiety and regret, that their indignation, poor things, had no chance whatever against his sympathy, Bernard, after a brief council with Mrs. Wilmslow, determined to return to town and concert some measures with Mr. Molesworth for the better securing the comfort of the poor mother. He scarcely took the pains to continue the pretext that he had expected to meet Molesworth at Aspen, and departed without troubling himself with any formal adieu to the master of the house. His feeling as regarded Wilmslow, hitherto one of contempt and dislike, was deepening into a detestation, against which he struggled in vain, for it was against Carlyon's rule to give way to passions likely to be troublesome. But he was at the time of life when one talks of rules. Some years later he will follow without talking of them.

Emma bade him good-bye with a frank expression of regret, and little Amy cried, and refused to be comforted by his promise to return. But Kate took a calm, and somewhat reserved farewell of him, for which coldness Amy, after he had gone, scolded her heartily, and Kate submitted to the reproof with a strange meekness, kissing the orator now and then, but making no defence.

Carlyon's first instinct, on reaching London, was to hurry to his chambers, in the expectation of finding some information as to Lilian's place of residence. But out of the array of letters ranged in triple file down his desk by his laundress's care, not one was from Miss Trevelyan. He hastened to St. Alban's Place, in the hope of learning from Heywood where Lilian was, but the priest had left town, and his return was uncertain. After some meditation, Bernard began to grow indignant, and to ask himself questions, the perpetually recurring one being whether Lilian had any right to treat him in that manner. Brooding over his wrongs at that young lady's hand, he gradually worked himself up to write her a very reproachful letter full of hard things. But all the time he was inditing it, and pretending to himself that he should so like to see her read that part-and that—and that— I believe that he was deriving a cowardly pleasure from the recol

VOL. XXXV.

B

lection that as he did not know her address he could not send the letter, and that as it would be unfair to keep such a document by him, it must go into the fire-which it did. Love ought to be better friends with Time than he is, considering how much time is sacrificed to love.

So, Bernard could only wait and hope, in the mean time discussing the whole question with himself at all convenient and inconvenient periods of the twenty-four hours. Very early in the morning, and before he got up, he usually considered his case hopeless, and Lilian as lost to him, but when he came out, especially if it were a bright clear day, and he could walk with a springing step and inhale fresh air, he used to make up his mind that though there were difficulties in the way of his love, he should conquer them. And in the evening, and in pleasant society, where everything around you looks so smooth and prosperous, he was convinced that all was actually right, that he should soon meet Lilian, and that a few words would place them on the old footing. For circumstances and weather have more to do with our convictions than strong-minded people will admit.

It will not surprise anybody who knows our friend Mr. Paul Chequerbent, still an involuntary guest of Mr. Aarons, to be told that just when he began to believe his affairs settled, and his release at hand, he was suddenly reminded of a rather large debt of old date, on which proceedings had been taken by the creditor, but which had gone to sleep, either from the goodnature of the claimant, or his despair of doing any good with Paul. He had been at least as willing to forget the matter as had the other person interested, and he had omitted it in all his statements to Mr. Kether, but it accidentally came to the ears of the creditor that money was being paid for Mr. Chequerbent's debts, and to use that gentleman's own illustration, the obnoxious party was down upon him like an extinguisher. Something like a hundred pounds was wanted. Kether looked in no way surprised, when Paul, with some humiliation, revealed the affair, but drily remarked that some people casily forgot such things: it all depended on habit. Paul, relieved from the apprehension of his adviser's reproofs, launched out into intense declamation against the persevering malignity of creditors.

"By Jove!" he said; "I do not wonder that the last people who translated the Bible, found it necessary to alter a certain prayer. The commercial interest must have been rising into importance, and the old translation was felt to be inapplicable. Landed parties often forgive trespasses, but trading parties never forgive debtors, so the statement was adjusted in accordance with the progress of society."

"The point has not come much under my consideration," said the Jew, smiling. "But what is to be done? I don't think you will get any more help from aunts and godmothers."

"I am afraid not," said Paul. "They would have done more at once, but they are precise old virgins, and will not do a thing at twice." As usual, Bernard was summoned.

"I should like, of course, to give you the money, old fellow," he said; "but I have not got it, and though I could borrow it, just now it would not suit me to be a borrower. So I tell you, frankly, that I must sacrifice your interest to my own."

"Quite right," said Mr. Kether, quietly.

"But," said Carlyon, "I must help you, and I'll tell you what I will do. Three or four years ago I wrote a play. I locked it up. for I did not think it good enough to send to a manager. But I have been into some theatres lately, and I am certain, that bad as it may be, it is a great deal better than anything they are doing now. I will offer it to Dilligroat, and the price shall furnish your extrication."

"Dilligroat will pay you honourably," said Kether, who, like all Hebrews, took a strong interest in theatrical matters, "but he will not pay you too much. If you don't succeed with him, try Phosphor, who will promise you a good price, and pay you if he can't help it. I will manage him."

The plan was agreed on, and Carlyon's play was sent in to Mr. Dilligroat. A week passed, and no acknowledgment of the work being received, Bernard went to the theatre to obtain an interview. He was duly glanced at by the porter, and as duly informed that Mr. Dilligroat was not there, and that it was quite uncertain when he would be " down," perhaps not till night; perhaps not at all. This formulary (for the delivery of which Carlyon waited with grave patience) having been gone through, he went very close to the official, and allowed him to see the glimmer of half-a-crown. The man took not the slightest apparent notice of this gesture, but added to his previous communication that if Bernard had any message to leave for Mr. Dilligroat, he would, perhaps, like to write it down. This second formulary withdrew Carlyon from a group of two or three pale, damp-looking girls, hoping for an engagement in the ballet or chorus, an eager-eyed gentleman, to whom an order had been promised (and who could not understand how his friend, Mr. Dilligroat had omitted to leave it, as he had to go over to Clapham with it, before half-past four, to his brotherin-law, information of such deep interest to the porter that it actually made him whistle with excitement); a couple of carpenters, in shirt-sleeves and cloth-caps; and a beer-boy, who was incessantly bringing in as many pewter vessels as he could carry, for the painting-room, and other private departments of the establishment. Carlyon was introduced into a tiny square closet, glazed in front, where the porter accepted his fee, and the visitor's card, which he read with great care, and dispatched into the house by the first messenger who passed inwards. The official scarcely thought it worth while to reconcile this proceeding with his previous declaration, but murmured something about Mr. Dilligroat's "sometimes coming in at the front," and added a contemptuous reference to "those people bothering there." The porter was by no means to blame for these manoeuvres, inasmuch as they preserved Mr. Dilligroat from the sin of uttering a volley of the most intense and compendious execrations angry man ever

foamed forth, a process he invariably went through if the hallofficer ever sent up anybody who had either a right or a favour to demand of the manager. By long experience, the janitor had a tolerable guess at the character of the applicants for admission, and Carlyon looked like neither actor wanting an engagement, hanger-on wanting an order, tradesman wanting money, or bailiff wanting Mr. Dilligroat, four classes of visitants especially obnoxious to the latter.

In a few minutes a rather well-dressed, keen-eyed person, of good address, came out and hastily examined Carlyon. The appearance of the latter seemed to satisfy the inspecting commissioner, who made a sharp, decisive sign to him to enter, a result which caused the poor girls, and the order-hunter from Clapham, to look round with as much reproachfulness as they dared exhibit, and which brought another hurricane of whistling from the loyal and imperturbable Cerberus, while Carlyon was hurried along certain dark passages, and introduced to the manager's room. The occasional groan of a fiddle, and a clatter of hammers, were all the sounds he had leisure to note in his progress.

Mr. Dilligroat was a tall and well-built man, who was now becoming too large for the stage, but whose strongly marked features must have possessed considerable vulgar beauty some years before. They were, indeed, still pointed out as models, as were his broad shoulders and massy legs, by the female population of the retail trading district around his theatre, when a special "benefit," or some managerial whim brought the stalwart director forward for that night only. He was not a bad-hearted, nor even a bad-tempered man; but a manager's hand must be against the majority of his fellow

creatures.

"How do you do, Mr. Carlyon? Glad to make your acquaintance, and hope we shall see a good deal of one another. Sit down. I shan't introduce you to this man, because he is one of the greatest rascals that ever lived, and who is now adding to the vast and accumulated mountain of his iniquities, by asking me six and sixpence for a beast of a goose."

The person whose private character and precise business were thus unfolded by the manager's eloquent frankness, was a dirtylooking little man, nursing a large, plucked goose, which lay upon a red pocket-handkerchief. He seemed very little afflicted at this exposition of his nature, but with humble and smiling face turned to its author.

"Don't be hard upon me, Mr. Dilligroat, sir. It's worth every penny of the money. I'll appeal to this gent," and he held up his goose to Carlyon, tenderly withdrawing the corners of the handkerchief, as a proud young mother exhibits her first baby.

"That gent, as you profanely term him, you old Scrabstraw, will shortly be one of our most distinguished dramatic authors. Don't poke your d- bird in his face."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Dilligroat, sir, but if I might be so bold," said Scrabstraw, with the most abject servility.

"But you might n't. What is it, you old thief?"