its unsnuffed wick, as if ashamed of its condition. It gave out very little light; it wanted assistance before it could do so, like a friendless author. By degrees, however, James made out who was present. Eliza was not. Phillips was not.

The people who were there are not important to this narrative. There was a painter, who would have been a pre-Adamite if Adam had painted, so violently was he enamoured of what was ancient. There was an amateur musician, who doted on compositions which nobody ever seemed to have heard, and who thoroughly despised what was popular; he admired that style of music especially which, like the house of Gray's aunt, is full of passages that lead to nothing. There were several young human beings in men's dresses and women's dresses, remarkable for nothing beyond the fact that they were nobodies. James was accustomed to meet them at the parties of their set, and see them pursue the ennobling and useful occupations of dancing silently, and-eating and drinking. He did not care for any of these, and as he was now sure that he should have a seat, he determined to get rid of some of his impatience and anxiety by a stroll in the streets.

It was now beginning to grow light; day was breaking, and the rain had ceased. The crowds increased with every moment-drivers were shouting, police trying to keep the people to the pavements-all in confused order. Our acquaintance, James French, elbowed his way down to Temple Bar; he desired to see the decorations of that sightly edifice-it was an object for his mind. Workmen were still employed in hanging the drapery, and arranging the gigantic and mysterious ornaments. The flaring torches of gas flung a strange light over them and their works, and the crowds of men and carriages below. He stood and contemplated the scene for some time with wonder; and then, as daylight grew, and the gas-lights became useless-they were not extinguished all dayhe suddenly bethought himself of his room in the Strand, and returned thither with all possible speed.

"Has Mrs. Tyrwhitt's party come yet?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

His heart beat even more violently than it had on entering before. He was uncertain then-he knew now. She was up-stairs.

He did not hurry up this time, he went quite leisurely. A bevy of old women stood at the head of the stairs, all, as it seemed to him, speaking Mrs. Tyrwhitt was among them. She hastened to shake hands

at once.

with him.

He felt very cold-his hands were absolutely clammy. He was angry with himself for thus yielding to nervous feeling. He entered the room. The candle still stood on the table burning, its wick with a great head to it. There were more bonnets, and shawls, and furs. There she was! talking to-no, not to Phillips-he did not seem to be there-talking to the painter. He advanced to her.

She was certainly a lovely girl. Rather short, her figure was exquisitely rounded, and her waist not too small. Her hair was dark auburn, worn in short ringlets all round. Her face was oval, her eyes were blue, her lips red, and with a dimple always waiting their instructions; above all, however, her complexion was the most transparent, delicate, and yet health-tinted, that ever crossed a poet in his dreams. If the mind

an

equalled its prison in beauty, what a treasure was here! No wonder James loved-generous natures attribute loveliness of mind to loveliness of body.

She greeted him warmly. He was in the seventh heaven when breakfast was brought in. He had never known her so kind before. Criticise her! Nonsense! He had been a fool to despond; she had not meant to wound him; there was nothing to find fault with in her; he was sure she loved him.

Eliza Thornhill was an heiress. Her mother was of good family, but poor. She was sent out to Madras-a very distant uncle so wanted a friendly face from home. She was engaged to a civilian there within three months; he had a fortune; was rich enough to be uncle in India to a dozen heroines; was on the whole a pleasant, steady, easy man. In three months more she married him; in twelve she buried him, and came with her infant daughter and fortune to England immediately afterwards.

Unhappily she did not remain long a widow. A rigid, excellent man, himself possessed of large fortune, met and loved, and ere long married her. The match was not altogether to her liking; but she did not find that out till afterwards. She was a pretty, empty-headed thing, and did not fancy his exactness and rigidity. There were, therefore, differences of opinion between them, and the young Eliza (there were no other children) had to study and suit herself to both. She liked to be petted and loved, and spared no pains to secure the heart of her step-father, as well as to keep that of her mother. Thus, though they quarrelled, she was “friends” with both a little flirt at twelve.

The table had been cleared for breakfast, and all sat down round it, James next to Eliza. As it proceeded, several additions were made to the party-one that James at least did not notice. As the meal con cluded, however, and he happened to glance up from his bright com panion, he saw fixed upon him the eyes of-Frank Phillips.

"Then he is here!" he exclaimed.

"He? who, Mr. French ?",

'Phillips."

"Ah! so he is. How d'ye do, Mr. Frank," said Eliza, as Phillips came to her. Mr. Frank? Could James believe his ears? Frank! Why she called him by his surname : Mr. French. Frank !-Confound him!

Mr. Phillips was a tall, well made young man, with a large light-complexioned face, grey eyes, and sandy moustache. His clothes fitted him well, and he had the whitest of hands. We may obtain some glimpses of his life presently; enough to say here that he was one of those mennumerous enough in our metropolis-whom everybody seems to know, but whose history nobody knows. He had a good address, lived well, appeared to have money; but his dearest friend was ignorant of his family; never heard of his father or mother; would, in fact, have had to acknowledge, if pressed, that on reflection he was even to him a living mystery.

To James's vexation he found himself coolly supplanted by this handsome, serene intruder; without any opportunity of being angry, too. The man did everything calmly, and, worse than all, Eliza would not snub him. Indeed, if he had not been very much in love, and therefore

very blind, he would have seen that he did not get even a fair share of her conversation.

The breakfast being over, the party assembled round the windows, and began to amuse themselves by watching the crowds below. It was now eight o'clock: broad day, and the rain had altogether ceased.

James, Eliza, and Phillips joined one of the groups, and a sort of general conversation ensued. But James could not shine. Somehow, Phillips took the wind out of his sails.

"What a wonderful career this has been," said a very stout gentleman, who had made his fortune in Australian shares lately." But, of course, it was all good luck the Duke had talent no doubt, but his successes were luck. Success always is."

"

I

"Permit me to doubt that," said the pre-Raphaelite painter. believe that success comes from attention to minutia hard work, and an eye to details. It does in painting."

"It doesn't in music," said the amateur; and he was proceeding to give some reasonings, which would have been more interesting to himself than to others, when James French spoke.

"You may set down the Duke's success to what you like," he said. "He had such a combination of gifts that every sect may claim him."

"You seem to speak of the Duke's success, all of you," said Frank Phillips, "I don't admire him so much for his success as for his character, because he always did his duty!"

"Bah!" cried the musician, provoked at having been silenced, "Duty! That's the wrong card played by the press, and followed up by those who respect the press. I don't. Duty! We admire the Duke because he was successful, not because he did his duty. If he had failed he would have done his duty all the same, and we should not have admired him, Paganini succeeded; Fortini fails, yet Fortini is the greatest artist. Success is everything, I say."

"Fortini ?" said Phillips, as if puzzled.

"I never heard of him."

"Very likely not. Unsuccessful, I say. Not the less a great artist; greater than Paganini."

"Pray where is he to be heard?" asked Phillips. "I should like to hear him."

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Why, just now, he has to keep the wolf from the door; he is playing somewhere in Surrey, I believe," stammered the musician.

"In the streets, I suppose?" And Phillips laughed. The musician reddened, but as the others laughed too, he joined them.

James felt that while Phillips talked about duty, he talked without conviction; but how was he to cap the popular expression of admiration for the Duke? He could only be silent.

Attracted by the laughter, Mrs. Tyrwhitt bustled from the next window to that where our party stood.

"Are you looking at the man in the blue comforter too?" she said. “What man ?”

"There. On the other side of the street. Next to the lamp-post. That man is perfectly immovable. He has stood in that attitude for the last ten minutes; he intends to stand so till the procession comes, no doubt. Well, he's a wise man, for he'll see as well as we shall, and pays nothing for it."

"A capital sketch, that man!" said the painter. "A tall, well-limbed, massive fellow; that blue comforter too! What blue would you call it: it would show well, that comforter."

"His worsted gloves and thick boots would be too heavy for a picture," said Phillips, sneering,

"Heavy? why heavy? Not heavier for a picture than they are for him. I'd have them, as well as the comforter. We idealise too much, Mr. Phillips; we ought to copy more-copy nature, sir. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”

“Boots, and comforters, and gloves are not in nature," answered the other, smiling. "If you intend only to copy nature, my friend, you must take off the boots, and gloves, and other articles of dress, and present man as wild in woods the-savage ran.

"What a long chat you and our dear girl had," Mrs. Tyrwhitt said, drawing James a little aside. "I watched you. Such a sweet girl—a perfect treasure! So good, too! I wish your mother had come with us, dear," she added aloud to Eliza.

"A good thing she hasn't," Phillips said, in a low tone to the perfect treasure. She laughed, and looked up in his face.. James could not hear, but he saw and disliked the glance. But did he remember his promise to his sister to criticise Eliza ?

"Ay, my dear Mrs. Tyrwhitt," he answered. is a perfect girl."

"You say truly. She

"Get that soft-headed fellow out of the way for a minute," said Phillips, in a low voice, to the heiress. "We can slip into that back room then. I want to tell you my scheme; we can't speak while he watches us so. Send him to buy you a newspaper; he's sure to go, and will be away some minutes before he finds that none of the shops are open."

Eliza's brilliant eyes twinkled with merriment at the idea of sending her lover on a fool's errand.

"Mr. French," she said, presently, as soon as Mrs. Tyrwhitt had returned to the other window; and she took James apart. "Will you oblige me?" she said, with a long soft look from her fine eyes..

"Yes, yes. What can I do ?"

"Well," she said. "I don't want to ask Mr. Phillips, becauseBut the fact is, papa told me to be sure and take him home a newspaper with a programme of the procession. Do you think you could get me one? I hardly like to ask you; but-Mr. Phillips-I would rather not ask him."

"No, no. Allow me to do it. How kind of you to prefer my services," he exclaimed, in a breath. "I knew it, I knew she loved me," thought the sanguine young man as he sprang down stairs. "Papers? Bless her! I would subscribe for life to every paper in London, if she asked me.

He had reached the bottom of the narrow staircase, and was about to open the little trap which was called by courtesy THE private door, and which was close to the shop front, when he suddenly discovered that in his eagerness he had forgotten to put on his hat. He hastened back. She will think I'm a fool, he reflected.

As he ascended the stairs he saw the sweep of a petticoat. A momentary flutter, just from one room to another; but it sufficed. It was

Eliza! Then he should get his hat without being seen by her. He was at the top of the stairs about to enter the front room again, when-he thought he heard a light laugh behind him, in that little dark cupboardroom-a light laugh-it was hers-and an exclamation of delight. But the exclamation of delight was not hers-no-nor that sound which succeeded it. Why, that was a kiss, and the voice was Phillips's. For a moment he stood like one stunned. Was such perfidy possible? No, no. His ears 66 were made the fools of the other senses." Were they? What were those voices saying?

Almost without reflecting on the base part he played, he listened; he could not help it; it was not in human nature to help it. And as he did so his face worked fiercely-he clenched his hands-he felt all the passion of a warm and ingenuous nature duped by heartlessness.

But he instantly returned to himself. "I will not eavesdrop," he

muttered. "Great Heaven! Can what I have heard. -No. I will hear no more." And he rushed into the front room, took his hat, and bounded down the stairs.

For a moment he thought of flying altogether. He would not return. to the house-he did not want to see the pageant-but then braver thoughts succeeded. Surely he could conquer himself. He would try. He opened the private door. As he did so he saw more plainly the man with the blue comforter, and remembered what had passed about him up-stairs. The man's eyes seemed fixed; they met his. His attitude was the same as ever-his hands, with their worsted gloves, crossed before him. Why did James French notice him? He knew not, except on account of what had been said.

The Strand was now shut to carriages, and the pavement was a solid mass of people, there being just room enough left for eirculation close to the houses. As James opened the door he saw an old acquaintance standing close to it, smoking. He would have avoided him, but Forrest would not be avoided.

66

Ah, French! how do? How are you?" he cried. "You in that house?-I'm next door. It's horrid slow there. My seat's high up in the back part of the staircase of seats erected in the window. There's no light there, nobody to talk to, no back to lean against, and they say the procession hasn't started yet; so I'm out here taking a cigar, and shall just go on smoking for the next hour. Are you with a party?"

66

Yes," said James, absently. He was, in fact, thinking what he should do. If so long a time was to elapse before the pageant arrived, how should he spend it? He cared for nobody in those rooms up-stairs but Eliza, and she- Why not stop down here and smoke too? He would not leave the field of battle; he would make himself sure that he was really beaten before he did so; but as for passing all the intervening time in her society-impossible! No, he could not criticise her. If he was not to love and win her, the only other thing was to forget her. He would take a cigar with Forrest.

It so happened that not many houses distant was a shop kept by an old woman for the sale of newspapers. It was open too. He went in and got a Times, and then returned and lit a cigar, and stood for threequarters of an hour with Forrest, smoking.

Now, whether the tobacco was very good, or whether Forrest's great

T