My speech was cut short by the entrance of the servant, who handed a card to his master. Mr. Lyndon looked at it, and said with emphasis: "Certainly. Let him wait; I shall be disengaged in less than one minute."

There was no mistaking this. I must come to the point, and make good use of my time.

"Mr. Lyndon, I have come quite of my own accord, and perhaps very foolishly, to ask you whether you would not do something in this unpleasant business for the sake of your niece. It is such a pity that a girl so young, and so poor, and-and-" I blurted out-" so pretty, should be liable to be tormented and disgraced by a man of that kind. Could you not make terms with him, and buy him off, for her sake and for her mother's? They have had so much unhappiness and poverty; and it's such a pity for poor Lilla."

"Mr. Temple, you appear to be so intimately acquainted with the personal history of some members of my family, that I don't suppose I add anything to your stock of knowledge when I say that I have already done a good deal for my niece."

"Yes, I am quite aware of it. She has told me so often." "And that she has no claim on me?"

"No claim but close relationship."

"That she has no claim on me except what I feel inclined to recognise. Now, I have no objection to Lilla herself; indeed, quite the contrary-I like her. But I am not going to be made the victim of all her relations. On that I am quite determined."

"If you could even take her away-to the country somewhere ?"

"I am so little in the habit, Mr. Temple, of discussing my family affairs, even with members of my own family, that I really cannot fall into the way of talking them over with strangers. Will you allow me again to thank you for the trouble you have taken in coming so much out of your way?"

"You, Mr. Lyndon, I have once more to say, are in no way indebted to me. I came only because I feel an interest in your sisterin-law and your niece. I fear I have done them little good by my unwelcome interference."

"You have done them, sir, neither good nor harm."

He touched the bell that stood upon his table.

I hastened out of the room, without even going through the form of a parting salutation, which, indeed, would have been thrown away upon him, as he had already busied himself in his papers with a resolute manner, as if to announce to me that he would not look up again until I had relieved him of my unwelcome presence.

I was in no pleasant mood as I crossed Hyde-park. Especially was I out of humour with myself, even more than I was with Mr. Lyndon; and as before I had seen him I felt an unreasoning dislike to him, and as now that I had seen him and spoken with him I felt

a deep detestation for him, it follows that I felt somewhat bitterly towards myself. I knew that I had made a fool of myself; that I had brought humiliation on myself; and that all this had been done to no purpose, or to an ill purpose. It takes a very brave and loyal nature to enable a man to be content with the knowledge that he has made a fool of himself, even when thereby he has benefited somebody; but it is gall and wormwood indeed to know that one has made a fool of himself, and at the same time frustrated instead of serving the object he wished to accomplish.

So I went, scowling and sullen, across the Park, mentally girding at myself and at the loungers and idlers I met in my way. I don't know why, when a man is in a vexed and sulky humour, he immediately begins to despise his fellow-creatures whom he may happen to meet, and to set them down as frivolous and worthless idlers, gilded butterflies, and so forth. I know that I visited, mentally, the pride and insolence of Mr. Lyndon upon every creature, man and woman, who passed me. Madame Roland in her maiden days, when snubbed by the aristocracy of her province, was not consumed by a fiercer flame of democratic passion than I felt that Sunday after I had been a victim to the insolence of the rich member of parliament. I daresay if the people I scowled at in Hyde-park could only have known what was passing within my breast, many of them would have felt highly flattered and delighted. For the aristocrats Madame Roland detested were aristocrats. My aristocrats and pampered minions and gilded butterflies were in nine out of ten instances people very much of my own class of life, who had come out on the Sunday to see the riders and the carriages in the Row.

As I approached the Row a haughty aristocrat passed me rather closely. He was walking, like myself. It was like his insolence and the arrogance of his class! It was his affectation of indifference to saddle or carriage-cushion. He was a tall and, as well as I could see in a passing scowl, a handsome aristocrat. I flung upon him a glance of scorn. He eyed me rather curiously; he even turned back and looked steadily after me when he had passed. I too turned, and glared defiantly at him. He was, as I have said, tall-fully six feet high, I should say, with square, broad shoulders; he was dark-haired, and had a magnificent beard of curly, silky black. He was very well dressedindeed, far too handsomely dressed for an aristocrat on a Sunday. He was not hurling back glances of scorn at me, but was scrutinising me with a grave, earnest curiosity. He advanced a step, then fell back. I too advanced, a sudden light of recognition flashing on me. Then we approached each other rapidly and at once.

"Ned Lambert !" I exclaimed.

"Mr. Banks!" said my aristocrat. It was my old friend, the bassocarpenter.

Now that I came to study his appearance, he was not changed as to

features or expression. He had grown much handsomer-he always was a good-looking fellow, remarkable for his fine eyes and his beard, but now he was strikingly handsome. He was splendidly builtstately as a guardsman, supple as a gymnast. He had still the grave, modest, genial expression which was so attractive about him in the old days. He was only too well dressed; for as one came to look at him attentively there was something about him which seemed a little out of keeping with the clothes. Perhaps if I had not known of his origin and his bringing-up, I might never have noticed this; as it was, I thought I could detect the outlines and the movements of the young workman under the broadcloth, the shiny hat, the fawn-coloured trousers, the lavender-kid gloves.

We were very cordial in a moment. Really it was kind of him to walk with me just there and then; I was so very carelessly, not to say shabbily, dressed. My old friend and foe did not seem to care.

"You have been in London long, Mr. Banks?" asked Lambert. I told him how many years.

"So long, and we never met all that time! I've been away a good deal; but still it is odd that we should both have been knocking about London so much and never met."

He soon told me all about himself. He was an organ-builder, and was holding a very good position in a great house. He had himself invented and introduced some improvements into the construction of the instruments, and though these were not important enough to bring him fame or money, yet they gave him consideration with his employers and their patrons; and he looked forward to an ultimate, perhaps not a very distant, partnership. He had been sent to many foreign cities to represent his principal and superintend the building and putting up, the repairing and improving, of organs. He had been to the United States; he had been in St. Petersburg, and Moscow, and Stockholm; he was quite familiar with Rome, and Paris, and Madrid. He had lived ever so many lives, while I had been vegetating by the Lethean wharf of the Thames's stodgy banks. I felt myself very small indeed as he talked to me. For me, my story was told in two words: Me voici.

There was one subject we both seemed to avoid, yet surely we both were anxious to approach it. We sometimes beat about it; in this way, for example:

"You have been in London all lately-for the most part, I mean, Mr. Banks ?"

"For the most part, yes. No, though; I was down in the provinces a good deal all the summer."

"But you were in town some part of the season-of the opera

season ?"

"Some part of it; not lately. I only came back to town a few days ago."

He wanted to know if I knew all about Christina. But I shrank back as yet. It came on in another way. He insisted that I must go and dine with him. He lived out St. John's-wood way.

"Are you married, Lambert ?"

"No." He spoke very slowly. "No, Mr. Banks, I am not married, and I am not likely to be. I don't see what I want marrying. And you-perhaps you are married ?"

"No. I may take up your own words-I am not married, Ned Lambert, and I am not likely to be. I don't see what I want marrying. And you know the reason why."

"Ah!" He breathed hard, looked at me with a stolen glance of kindness, curiosity, and pity; but he said no more.

"Have you seen her, Lambert ?" I broke out at last, and I drew him aside under a clump of trees. "Have you seen her?"

I did not name her name- what need to pronounce it?

"Yes; 0 yes, I've seen her."

"Lately?"

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Lately, and before, and always. I may say; at least, often." "You have been seeing her-you have been meeting her all this time ?"

"Yes; off and on, that is. When I could, and where I could."

Almost a cry of agony and anger escaped from my lips. All this time, all these years, while I had been groping in the desolation of solitude and darkness, he had known of her whereabouts, had watched her, and spoken with her, and been familiar with her! And faithfully served her, no doubt! I suppose the fierce light of jealousy and anger flamed in my eyes, for he at once said, gently and firmly :

"For what I think you mean, Mr. Banks, it was little good to me to see her and speak to her. I tell you honestly, and like a man, I did my very best to make her love me; and I couldn't succeed. I tell you, too, I was mean enough to try to serve her and help her when she wanted help, and to hope to work on her gratitude in that way; and it was of no use. She told me so at last; and then I tried to make up my mind as a man to be her friend, and no more; and I have been trying, and I think I've been succeeding even; and I fancy I'm growing better, and able to bear it, and to think of her only as a friend. Now I'll not deny that this meeting with you, and bringing back the old times, and talking of her with you, may have thrown me back a little. But I'll get up again, please God, and get over it. I'm determined to get over it, and to be satisfied and happy to be her friend. So you need not feel anything like anger at me. I have done you no harm, and myself no good."

Need I deny that a glow of wild and futile delight passed through me? It passed soon away; Lambert's ill-success was but little gain

to me.

"You say you have always been seeing her; where, for instance ?"

"In London, here, first of all; and in Paris, and in Milan, and in Russia. And Paris again, when she made her great success there. And here, the other day, when she came out and carried all before her. I was there. I hoped to be able to throw her her first bouquet; but, good Lord, there was such a shower of bouquets came down that mine must have been lost among them!"

"One word, Lambert. Did she never-did she never speak-of me?" "Not much; very little indeed. I didn't ask her any questions. I didn't know how you came to be separated, and I don't know now; and I don't ask you, either, anything about it. I tell you, however, that I thought badly of you at first; but afterwards I thought I must have done you wrong."

“Why, Lambert, why?”

"Because, from some words she once let fall, I thought she had made up her mind not to let anything stand between her and success on the stage; and I thought—although she never hinted such a thing in the least-I thought-well, I don't quite like to say it."

"Speak it out, man! Nothing that can be said by any human creature can hurt me more."

"Well, I thought that she had thrown you over."

"So she did, Lambert. She threw me over, as you say-she left me suddenly. I never knew why; and I have never seen her since. I ought to hate her and curse her, and I cannot."

"No, no, you ought not to hate her. I don't understand her—I never quite could; but if I know anything about her, and if she ever loved anyone, I think she loved you."

"Did she not speak of me lately-when last she was here?"

"Yes, she did; that was, indeed, almost the only time. I went to see her up in Jermyn-street just the day before she left, and she asked me if I knew that you were living in London; and of course I didn't know; how could I? London is the grave of provincial friendships." "Well, and she-"

"She told me you were living in London, and that she believed you were very happy."

"And did she so calmly, so readily believe that I was happy? Did she cast me from her mind without a word of regret ?"

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"No, not without a word of regret; at least, I ought not to say regret, perhaps, for she said she was glad that you were happy.”

"O God!"

"And she said I might perhaps meet you after she was gone, and, if I did, to give you her remembrances and her good wishes."

"That was all?"

"That was all—all she said, at least. I know what I thought at the time."

"Tell me what you thought. Don't spare me, Lambert; tell me anything-all."