"Poor little thing. Has he recognised me?" "It would be impossible at that distance." "Meet me to-morrow night after dark at this address. I have prowled all the afternoon to catch you, and I must be gone. Mind! not one word." And so he had gone, leaving Reuben lost in wonder. However, his selfpossession had prevented his betraying himself to Lady Hillyar. And, when he left her presence, he began to think of the address Sir George had given him; thinking probably that it would be at some West-end hotel. What was his astonishment to find that it was Lawrence Street, Chelsea-a strange place indeed in which to find a baronet. He got there a little after dark. He found the house at once, of course, having known every house there from his boyhood. It was a largish old house with bow windows, which might have been respectable once, but which was now let out in floors and single rooms to poor people. Passing up the common staircase, into the close smell which there is in all that kind of houses -a smell which had been familiar to him all his youth, and yet which seemed so repugnant after a year in the sweet fresh airs of Stanlake-he went on to the second floor; and, before he had time to knock at the door of the front room, the door opened, and Sir George beckoned him in. "You stare to find me here, boy, hey?" "I thought you at Florence, sir. But "Why do you hesitate to call me 'father,' Reuben?" "Indeed well then, Father'—I hardly know. In spite of all the proofs you have given me of it from time to time-in spite of all your kindness-it seems strange. Hang it all, sir," continued he, with an air of petulance; "a man can't get used to everything all of a heap. And I ain't got used to this yet. And, what is more, I must have my time for getting used to it. Now." His true Londoner's hatred for anything approaching sentiment made him positively angry for a moment. But his good humour came back directly, and he asked Sir George if he had given offence. "Offence! not the least. I could have expected no more. I will make you like me." "I do so already," said Reuben. "More than you think for, perhaps ; but I don't like talking about that sort of thing. I never knew a chap worth three halfpence who was." "Well," said Sir George, "I don't know but what you are right. Old boy, I'll prove I care for you by deeds, and we will talk no more on the subject. I have very little to ask you. You have kept me pretty well au fait with matters at Stanlake. Do you know what I have been doing abroad?" "I do not, sir. Travelling?" "And you might add gaming considerably, and you might add winning considerably. But I have been hard at work too. I have been hunting a wolf, Reuben." "What wolf, sir?" "Yes. An old grey wolf. I could never come up to him. He travelled fast, faster than I, who had to make inquiries, could follow him. But I tracked. Yes, by George, like an old inspector." Sir George Hillyar had risen, and was standing with his back to the fire, biting his nails impatiently. Reuben sat in the gloom and watched him anxiously. His face was worn into deep lines, and his old scowl, which was so familiar to times, was strong upon his face tonight. "I tracked him," said he, speaking half absently to Reuben, "from here to Paris-to Geneva-to Turin-to Ajaccio. What did he want there, in the name of his master the devil? And then to Naples, and Malta, and at Malta I lost him, and he must have come back to England. Have you seen him?" He said this suddenly and sharply. Reuben asked whom he meant ? "Why, Samuel Burton. Did I not tell you? Have you seen him?" Reuben said, "No," but cunningly waited to hear more. "What might make Sir George so anxious to find him?" he asked. "Nought! A little conversation. A few words in private. Nothing more." He said this so strangely that Reuben would not say what was on the tip of his tongue. To wit, that Samuel Burton was at that present moment in Australia, and that he had in his pocket at that moment a letter announcing his arrival there. Reuben thought that it might be wise to keep these two good people apart. He was confirmed in his resolution by all that he saw and heard that night. Sir George kept him there talking for a long time. The conversation was all on Sir George's part, and consisted almost entirely of a long diatribe against Samuel Burton his ingratitude, his falseness, his villainous, abominable ingratitude over again, until Reuben was prompted to ask suddenly, "whether he had been up to anything fresh." Sir George said no, and talked more cautiously. He asked about Stanlake; about the home farm; about the game; about Lady Hillyar. Had she been alarmed at night? Had there been any attempts at burglary there was a deal of property in the house. He knew for certain that the house had been robbed once, and that the thief had got in through the pantry window. Morton should be told of this; Reuben had better tell him. Reuben had better say that he had received a letter from in the house, and shoot any man who attempted to break in stone dead. It was only justifiable homicide; the law would acquit him. Reuben had better say nothing about it; he did not wish any one shot. He was a miserable and most unhappy beggar, and wished he was dead, and that Erne was dead, and that they were all dead, and quietly asleep in their graves. He was not afraid of death, he said, and wondered that he was fool enough to live on. If he could bring himself to believe in a future state, of any sort or kind, he would blow out his brains that night. But he couldn't, and annihilation was so horrible. He had not been used justly. He had had no chance. He appealed to Reuben. Reuben would not stand there and say that he had ever had a fair chance; not such a chance as one gentleman would give another. whole state of this world was horrible and abominable; a man was predoomed to ruin from his cradle. The Ultrapredestinarians were right. He would publicly declare for them, and declare himself reprobate. He would not do it for nothing though; if his doom had been sealed from the first, he would not go quietly to his punishment. That dog might be assured of his salvation, but he should feel the horror of sudden death. He would get face to face with that dog, and inflict on him a few moments of ghastly terror. The No. And so on. If any man cares, let him follow out poor Sir George Hillyar's frantic, illogical line of thought. It would be very easy, but is it worth while? Sir George had worked himself into a state nearly frantic, and Reuben was sincerely distressed. At last he ventured up to him, and, laying his hand. on his arm, besought him earnestly to be quieter. It had a sudden effect; Sir George grew calmer, and his rage died away into low mutterings. Presently he told Reuben that he must go. He cautioned him not to mention his having seen him to any living soul, and so dismissed him. the old place," said Reuben to himself as soon as he was in the street. "I am fond of it for their sakes. What a kind lot they were! I wonder what they are doing now. So it's all broke off between Emma and Mr. Erne; more the pity." Thinking in this way, Reuben passed through the narrow passage by the dissenting chapel, and soon stood before the old deserted house. Brown's Row was mainly gone to bed. Only Mr. Pistol, who had got off with a twelvemonth, was standing with three or four others under a lamp, and expressing his intention of slitting a certain worthy magistrate's throat from ear to ear. But, hearing a base groveller of a policeman coming round the corner, he swaggered off with a dignified silence in the direction of Church Street; and the Row was left in peace. Reuben was glad of it, for he was (for him) in a sentimental mood, and felt very much inclined to stand and watch the old house, bathed in the light of the early spring moon. He leant in the shadow under the pent-house of the Burtons' forge, and watched the dear old place with something very like emotion—when all at once Sir George Hillyar came up, without seeing him, and disappeared round the back of the house. Prompted both by curiosity and by reckless love of adventure, Reuben immediately followed him. When he got round the house, no one was there, and it was evident that Sir George had got into the yard by a broken place in the palings; and Reuben, looking in, saw him enter the old house by a back window which was left unclosed. "Now, what is the meaning of this? and what on earth is he doing here?" thought Reuben, and immediately crouched down under the window. He heard Sir George on the stairs; and quickly, and with the silence of a cat, he followed him in, and slipped off his shoes. He found himself in the old familiar kitchen, and crouched down for fear of not, however, but passed out, and began ascending the great staircase. What made Reuben feel sure that he was going up to his old room-to the room which had been the scene of so much before? Reuben was puzzled to find a reason for such a strange proceeding; and yet he was absolutely certain that he was going there. So certain that he followed more rapidly than was quite prudent. The moon flooded the house, through every available cranny, with a dull weird light; and Sir George was easily kept in sight: It was the more easy to do it, as there was a brisk wind abroad, which filled the house with rustling sound, and hushed the footsteps of the follower. He passed on, higher and higher, till he passed into Reuben's room, and disappeared. Reuben, waiting a few minutes, cautiously peeped in at the half-opened door. His old bed stood there still; it was barely worth removing; but there were other evidences of Sir George having been there before. The bed was roughly covered with a blanket-bed enough for an old Australian; and there were other signs of habitation, in the midst of which sat Sir George at a broken old table, with his revolver lying before him. Reuben gave one look at him, and then stole silently away, his retreat being covered by the innumerable mysterious noises of the deserted place. CHAPTER LIV. JAMES BURTON'S STORY: THE CLAYTON "Ar last," I cried out, as I saw Erne "Old boy, I am so glad to see you. I was determined to make you wait for letting Emma go away before my appointed visit. You see I have avenged myself on you by keeping you waiting some six months for a sight of my handsome mug. It was only your wedding which brought me over at last. And how "We were all very well." "You have seen Joe's Report," said Erne, "of course. Is it not masterly? I am so rejoiced; but no one ever doubted his abilities but himself. The conclusion pleased me; I heard the old fellow's voice as I read it, and saw him emphatically rolling his head at every period; it is so exactly like Joe. "Our tender mercies to these people will be found to be but cruel, if we do but raise them out of a sea of physical misery which was overwhelming them in the old world, to plunge them into a moral and intellectual one in this. In examining the condition of the class of boy on which you ordered me to report, I found an insolent ignorance, a sullen impatience of control, which gave me the deepest concern, and which has settled for ever in my own mind the question of compulsory education. Unarmed with such powers as I should derive from the prestige which is naturally the right of an officer appointed by Government, and by a law rendering education compulsory, I for one, speaking as a schoolmaster, would refuse to undertake the task of training these sullen and ignorant young barbarians, who in a few years' time will be exercising the full privileges of citizens."-I pause for a reply. "That last sentence ain't in it, is it?" I asked. "No," said Erne, laughing, "but it should be, in the fitness of things. The fault of the report is that it is all through too much in the Romans, countrymen, and lovers' style. Joe is uncertain of himself, afraid of some old lurking bit of slang or vernacular turning up and undoing him when he don't expect it; and so he wraps up all his excellent common sense in fine words. Never mind; the set he is in now will soon cure him of that. Well, and how is she?" "Emma? She is very well; she seems not to like Palmerston. Joe is never at home, and, when he is, is utterly precupied. Since his evidence before that commission, and the order for him to make a special report, he has been utterly "But about her!" I asked. There's something odd about her. A Je ne sais quoi, a sort of Haymarket air altogether. But she was not so bad till Mrs. Quickly came." "Well I don't know. "Mrs. Quickly!" I cried out. "Yes. Oh, by the bye, she says she knows all of you. I forgot. Yes, Mrs. Quickly has come and taken up her quarters there, altogether." "What does Clayton say to that?" "Oh, he approved of it at first, there being no family. 'You see, sir,' he said to me, It's as well to have some company for her. It is very dull for a woman in the bush without children.' "Take care of Mrs. Quickly, Erne." "Oh, you needn't caution me," said Erne, laughing. I know the cut of her ladyship's cap. Unluckily, Mrs. Quickly is troubled with a sinking in her stomach, and requires stimulants, which has resulted in this, that neither Mrs. Quickly nor Mrs. Clayton are exactly sober. Mrs. Quickly, being, I suppose, the more seasoned vessel, carries her drink in a more workman-like manner than Mrs. Clayton. When ever to throw herself into my arms and kiss me, you generally find that Mrs. Clayton has been forced to go and lie down. As for old Parkins, he never gets drunk. Drink what he will it makes no difference to him." "Does Clayton know of this?" "Yes, but he hasn't strength of mind to stop it entirely. He is exceedingly attached and devoted to his wife. says that, as soon as he can get rid of Mrs. Quickly, it will be all right again. She never did it till that woman came. But Mrs. Quickly won't go. Parkins says she has got the whip hand of Mrs. Clayton, and knows when she is well off." "I dare say. But who is Parkins?" "Parkins? Oh, why he is Parkins. He is a queer-looking card; but very agreeable, remarkably well-bred. He came there after Mrs. Quickly at first, I believe, but took such a fancy to me that he has been there a good deal. Clayton says he will leave me his fortune. He is very well off, looking for an invest ment. "I hope you may be his heir." "I have very little hope, Hammersmith; for, however excellent his testamentary intentions may be, I doubt whether he will have an opportunity of carrying them into execution for the next forty years. He looks like a liver." "Cannot he stop this miserable drinking?" "He does all he can, to do him justice; but somehow he seems afraid of Mrs. Quickly. The whole lot of them, with the exception of Clayton, have just the air of people who had made their fortunes by robbing poor-boxes. Nice sort of company for a young gentleman of my bringing-up: I don't much care about it so long as they don't kick up a row, but I am getting very tired of it. I shall make a bolt one of these days." That evening Erne and I took a walk together up the Brougham river. It is an exception to the majority of rivers in Australia, for, being snow-fed, and coming to a great extent through limestone, it keeps up a full crystal current through the hottest summer. It is the favourite resort of the lovers of Romilly to this day, for it is so deeply embowered in fern-tree and lightwood that one may sit in the shade and dream of cool English woods in August: dream only like her who "... Woke, and the bubble of the stream Fell, and without the steady glare" But, however, fern-trees and lightwood must do, where oak and elm are unprocurable. The Brougham is popular, too, as a resort for anglers; those pretty little salmonidæ, which are so singularly like grayling, leaving the larger river, the Erskine, prefer the more aërated waters of the Brougham and swarm up it in thousands. As we passed along the bank which wound up the valley near the river, we saw many of our neighbours bathing and fishing; but, getting farther from the town we seemed to leave life behind us, and began to think we were alone in the forest: when, coming to a deep pool, in a turn of the river, walled in with dark shrubs and feathering treeferns, we came on a solitary man, who sat on a log fishing by himself: on seeing whom, Erne exclaimed, "Hallo! why here's Parkins," and, going up to him, and having affectionately shaken hands, sat down and began a conversation. Mr. Parkins was affectionately glad to see Erne, but the principal expression of his face was that of intense amusement-amusement at my expense, for I was standing looking at him and at Erne with staring eyes and open mouth. This Mr. Parkins, this new friend of Erne's, was no less a person than my cousin Samuel. CHAPTER LV. EMMA'S VISIT. "THIS is my friend Mr. Burton," said Erne. "I formerly had the acquaintance of Mr. James Burton," said Samuel sarcastically; 66 nay, on one occasion I took the liberty of saving his life." I blushed, and stammered out some |