idea of applying to his father for help was impossible utterly impossible. Why, he knew that for months they had been denying themselves in every way to meet the expenses of dear little Fanny's wedding outfit: he would sell his watch, his books-everything he possessed, sooner than that they should know it.

He walked up and down Pall Mall, with his hands in his pockets, till it became time to turn towards the Strand. Any one who looked in his face would have judged him guilty of some punishable offence, so conscience-stricken and miserable was his appearance.

His fellow-clerks rallied him, and declared he had been jilted; but he could not laugh at their jokes. He knew nothing of money matters, his only idea being that if he could not pay the money, he should be sent to prison, and break his mother's heart.

Just as he reached his lodging, a bright thought flashed through the leaden mist that seemed closing round him.

Findlater was a thorough man of business, he should get a letter from him to-morrow to explain everything, and tell him what to do.

So the poor boy got some sleep, which he would not have done without this happy thought-true or false, it does not matter. Pandora was a wise woman to keep the elixir of life in her box: there is meat, drink, sleep, and happiness in Hope, be it ever so delusive.

But no letter came.

Woods sat and dawdled over his breakfast: he tried to fancy that was not the postman whose gay scarlet coat he had distinctly seen pass the window; then he recollected how a few months ago the postman had returned after he had gone by, having overlooked a letter he had to deliver: so he still sat and

waited.

What was the form in these cases, he wondered? Would the bill-holder apply to him, or should he go himself and explain it all, and say he felt sure Mr. Findlater would be home in a few days? What a miserable baby he felt himself in this world's knowledge! Why had not he

asked one of his fellow-clerks?

VOL. I.-NO. II.

In his secret heart he felt he had done something so very 'young' and what Shakspeare calls 'green,' in putting his name to this bill, that he had not courage to expose his folly; besides, to ask now, would seem like a request for money, and that he could not be suspected of.

'I'm sure I cannot get through another day like yesterday, though. I'll go to old Franklyn and learn the worst, even if it does make me late at office.'

Franklyn was Mr. Findlater's tailor.

He bowed obsequiously to Mr. Woods when the latter entered his fashionable establishment.

Jack soon explained that he did not come to order a suit of clothes, but to have a little conversation.

Certainly, sir,' said the everpolite tailor, bowing and smiling; I am happy to serve you in any way.'

As soon as they were in a private room, Woods explained his business.

"Now, Mr. Franklyn, I have never touched a farthing of this forty pounds; it seems rather hard I should have to pay it.'

The tailor went to a row of lettered

pigeon-holes on the other side of the room. He drew some papers out of one of the F's.

'You are mistaken in the sum, sir; your name appears jointly with Mr. Findlater's to a little bill for one hundred pounds.'

"A hundred! That's quite impossible. Mr. Findlater told me forty pounds was the outside of my risk.

'I can explain that, sir; the original bill was for sixty pounds; Mr. Findlater wished to increase the amount to one hundred pounds, and I said I should-just for form's sake, you understand-like another name on the bill, and he brought me yours. I have the honour to be acquainted with your uncle, sir-Mr. Barron, and I felt that my bill was as safe as the bank when I saw your name.' Woods groaned.

'Mr. Franklyn, you don't mean to say I've made myself answerable for a hundred pounds?'

Only as a matter of form, sir: dear me such a trifle, and if it doesn't quite suit you to settle it

M

this morning-why not renew for a couple of months?

And then there'll be ever SO much more interest to pay, won't there?'

My dear sir, such a trifle to a young gentleman with your connections.'

But, Mr. Franklyn, I don't understand you: you seem to expect me to pay it, when I tell you I positively can't, and that I've never had the money at all. Do you mean to say Mr. Findlater won't pay any of it? He can't be such a

'My dear sir, consider a little,' interposed the bland tailor, deprecatingly-for Woods was pacing up and down the room in an extremely wrathful manner- Mr. Findlater may perhaps stay abroad for some time longer. You see there are so many chances in the matter.'

The tailor's suave tones calmed the victim, and he said, more quietly, 'Do you mean to say he won't be back in time to meet this bill?'

'I should be very sorry, sir, to say anything of the sort; but how can one tell what may happen?'

But if his uncle dies, he must come back, and then he'll have enough to pay every one.'

Mr. Franklyn smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.

'I should not think that would hurry Mr. Findlater's return: andand-to tell you the truth, so many others are interested in Mr. Cartland's decease, that perhaps his heir may find it difficult to satisfy everybody out of what he has beenpecting for so long beforehand.'

-ex

Ignorant as Woods was, he could not misunderstand the tailor's meaning. He evidently did not expect Findlater to meet the bill. Despair made him desperate.

Very well, Mr. Franklyn, I see there's no help for it-I shall be glad to renew for two months; but I tell you plainly, that if Mr. Findlater is not forthcoming at the end of that time, you must not think of applying to my uncle Mr. Barron; you would ruin me entirely.'

'My dear sir,' said the tailor, soothingly, you take this matter too seriously; these little bills are every-day occurrences with gentle

men of fashion. To-day you are responsible for Mr. Findlater, next time, another friend will be so for you you will soon get used to it. Good morning, sir, I am so pleased to settle this pleasantly for you.'

And he smiled and bowed his visitor out.

CHAPTER II.

THE BROTHERS.

It was towards the end of August: London was of course a desert, and the heat of the weather gave it almost the arid, scorched-up look of a real one: the Parks were brown and withered: there was nothing to refresh the eye or the senses but the bright blue sky, and its glare was almost insupportable.

Our friend Jack Woods was still in town; he could have taken his holiday had he chosen; but he felt this would have involved expense. He had heard nothing of Findlater; the same stereotyped answer was given him whenever he called at his rooms. He had written to him repeatedly at all the Poste Restantes' he could think of; he was losing all hope, and had grown pale, and thin, and ill-so ill, that on the previous evening he sent a note round to the head of his office, saying he really must beg for a couple of days' leave.

And now he had them he did not well know what to do with them; it was too hot to keep his bed; he could not afford to call in a doctor; and to venture out of doors in the heat of the sun was madness, and yet he longed for air: he longed to be in the garden at home with his mother and tell her his folly and its punishment; but he did not dare to think of home till after the 1st of September; perhaps he should never see any of them again, certainly he could not if he disgraced them.

'But what a fool I am!' he thought. 'I asked for leave that I might go about and divert my thoughts from dwelling on this wretchedness which I feel is driving me mad, and here I sit in a cheerless room duller even than the office.'

He knew there was no shade to be found in the Parks, so he did not

turn westward, and was going into the old Temple Gardens, when he bethought himself suddenly of the Docks. He had only been there once, on his first arrival in town, and had been greatly struck with the bustle and activity going on. Surely he must see something to think about and distract his mind. Just as he reached London Bridge, and was looking at the busy scene below, he saw a Greenwich steamer landing its passengers, and among them a party of young men, evidently naval officers. They sprang up the landing steps amid much noise and laughter, one of them calling out

'Let's go for a minute on the jolly old bridge.'

They came up to where Woods was standing, seeing, but scarcely noticing what was going on around him, and went on to the middle of the bridge. One of them stared hard at Jack as he passed, and again as he returned. When he reached the foot of the bridge, he turned round, and looked so fixedly at him that Jack's attention was aroused.

In an instant they were shaking hands heartily, and in another, Richard Woods had dragged his brother on and introduced him to his friends, who were all going to dine together to celebrate their return.

Jack tried to decline joining them, but he was not listened to, while Richard kept on asking question after question, scarcely waiting for an answer after he had learned all were well at home, rattling on in the wild excitement of happiness about his prize money-for they had just returned from China-and the wonderful curiosities he had brought for Jack and Fanny.

His brother walked on pale and silent, with a strange jealous feeling at his heart. For the first time in their lives he felt himself inferior to Richard. From babyhood he had always been his wild brother's good genius; now here he was, after all sorts of extravagant and even blameable conduct, rich and happy, and would, of course, be for some time to come the idol of those at home; while he who had been so steady, just for one little rashness was to

bring lasting sorrow on himself and on them.

He felt more dissatisfied with himself than with Richard, because he knew it was not so much rashness that had made him sign the bill, as want of moral courage.

He had thought Findlater would despise him and call him a muff' if he shrank from doing what he told him was so very simple and customary an action. Generally he could withstand raillery; but he had felt greatly flattered by the marked notice of a man so much older, and in such a good position, and he longed to show him that the covert sneer he often indulged in against the want of life in home-bred youths was misplaced in his instance.

Richard noticed his paleness, and presently asked if he had been ill.

I am ill now; but take no notice till we're alone.'

The dinner was a very jovial affair, but poor Jack felt quite out of his place among the merry sailors, whose whole conversation was a series of jokes.

His head ached and throbbed painfully: his brother looked at him very often, and evidently noticed his paleness; for he took leave of his friends early, spite of their remonstrances.

When they reached the street, he told Jack to take his arm and lean on it.

'Now, my boy, I'll see you home. I wonder if there's a spare bed to be had; if not, never mind, I'll send my bag to the nearest hotel, and sit in your room to-night.'

There is a room, I know, and on the same floor as mine, if it has not been let since this morning,' said Jack, faintly.

Now hold your tongue, sir; the less talk we have to-night the better,' said the kind-hearted sailor, who, accustomed to the bronzed faces of his companions, was alarmed at Jack's pale, haggard appearance.

More than once during the night he entered the room to see if his charge were sleeping quietly, for Jack protested entirely against his sitting up in his room; but the revulsion of feeling their sudden meeting had created, had broken the

spell of his misery, and for the first time for several weeks he slept soundly till morning.

He was so glad he had taken a holiday now-he could tell Richard everything and ask his advice. Richard had grown much older, or he had grown younger. He seemed to feel he had an elder brother for the first time in his life.

He had not finished dressing, before the sailor entered his room rubbing his eyes, only half awake.

'What! you don't mean to say you are up, Jack? I'd booked you for a week's illness at least; surely you're not well, man, all in a hurry.'

I'm sorry to disappoint you, if you really had set your mind on nursing me; but I believe the sight of a home face was my best cure, Richard.'

'Come, let's have some breakfast, and don't stand palavering there, looking about as white as your shirt collar.'

But after breakfast, Richard insisted on hearing his brother's story; for his two years' absence from home had entailed a good deal of the world's hard usage upon him, and this, as it always does where there is a really good foundation, had opened his eyes to the trials of others and taught him sympathy.

He sat thinking for some time after Jack had finished.

Supposing I pay the hundred pounds for you, and leave you quite clear, have you any objection to my repaying myself in any way I choose?'

'Of course not; but you mystify me, and, Richard, I could not take your money.'

'I'm not going to lose a penny of it; I'm not such a flat. Now I'm off to smoke my pipe and arrange my ideas; but mind, old chap, you're not to worry any more; the money shall be paid punctually, and all you've got to do is to hold your tongue;' and before Jack could say a word of thanks, he had snatched up his hat and departed.

He did not appear again till evening, and then he put Jack through a regular catechism as to Mr. Findlater's appearance, habits,

pursuits, friends, and places of resort; but directly his brother began to question in return, he told him that was a part of the bargain he could not have infringed, and went off to bed.

CHAPTER III.

A PULL ON THE RIVER.

Mr. Findlater found it more convenient to spend his leave of absence abroad, till two or three little bill' affairs had blown over, for Jack was not by any means the only friend he honoured with such a mark of favour; but he had promised the young Viscount to meet him in Warwickshire, for the 1st September. His leave would expire on the eighth, and he was too keen a sportsman to give up a day's shooting easily. Although he thought it most probable Mr. Franklyn had allowed Jack to renew for a couple of months, he did not care about being seen in town before settling day.

There was money also to be received at his banker's, and as he had good reasons for keeping this fact secret, he preferred receiving it himself; besides, he must have a new sporting rig: he could not be exposed to the remarks of his friend's gamekeeper as to the want of completeness in his accoutrements.

One day would do it all; and he must be a bungler, indeed, if he could not contrive to spend one day in London incog.

He was determined not to sleep in town, that would double the risk of detection, for he did not intend to visit his own rooms.

So he travelled all night and arrived in the grey of early morning, before the shops were open.

This was provoking; however, he must breakfast, and the quickest way to do this was at the Railway Hotel adjoining the station.

At eight o'clock he sent for a cab, paid his bill at the hotel, and jumped into the vehicle with his portmanteau, feeling that risk was over now. He should keep that cab until it deposited him at the railway station on his way to D.

As he drew up the window he noticed a young man with his hat

pulled down over his eyes, lounging against the portico of the hotel, and attentively watching him. For a moment he felt anxious; but the next, he laughed, and told himself the air of England was, as foreigners say, full of worry.

He drove first to the banker's and drew the two hundred pounds he expected, for Mr. Cartland had been so touched by his nephew's devotion to him during his illness, that (I suppose, too, to make up to him for having recovered) he had this quarter doubled the handsome allowance he made him, an allowance of which Mr. Findlater had hitherto succeeded in keeping the world in ignorance.

As he came out of the banker's he again saw the same young man standing as if about to get into a Hansom cab.

It might be a chance coincidence; but it was an unpleasant one.

His resolution was soon taken; he finished his equipment as speedily as possible, and then drove on to the station. Here he looked round for his unknown tormentor, but he could not see him; however, it was best to be on the safe side. He took his ticket to D--; but he left the train at a little fishing village a few miles from London, as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.

He had managed matters so rapidly that it was not much past noon when he strolled up to the door of the pretty village inn.

The Crowing Cock' was a favourite haunt for anglers, artists, and refined idlers of all sorts-but on this day it was very still and deserted. Either the eve of the 1st September is not a favourable day for anglers, or some other reason, had almost cleared the little coffeeroom of guests. Only one remained, a severe-looking old gentleman, intent on the Times,' who evidently, by a restless movement of his eyebrows, considered Mr. Findlater's entrance an intrusion. There was a large French window in the room opening on to a smooth, well-kept grass plot, large enough to be called a lawn, which sloped gradually down to the river.

Mr. Findlater rang for the waiter and ordered his dinner-he would

dine at a little table in the large window recess.

But as he had ordered a roast chicken the waiter humbly suggested it could not be ready much before three o'clock. They had not expected company that morning and were quite out of poultry-of course it could soon be procured if the gentleman did not mind waiting.

The gentleman looked annoyed; but he was a thorough Londoner, and could not digest even the notion of an ill-cooked, probably tough chop or steak, so he said he would wait.

'I suppose I can have a bed here if I don't feel inclined to go on after dinner?'

The waiter bowed, flourished his napkin, and said they had the best sleeping accommodation possible; would the gentleman choose his room and have his luggage carried there?

'If there's a large bed-room over this with a river view, I'll have that.' Certainly, sir.'

Mr. Findlater stepped out on the grass-plot. The stillness and repose of the whole scene was delightful after the rapid motion he had been undergoing for four-and-twenty hours. He stretched himself full length on the grassy slope and lit a cigar. White and yellow waterlilies formed a gold and silver border along the river; they seemed to sit like water nymphs in their broad green leaves, as if meditating a Voyage when their coiling, snakelike stems should release them from anchorage.

You need not fancy that Mr. Findlater bestowed any attention on the water-lilies, unless their gold and silver appearance might have given him an idea, or he might think how impossible it would be to extricate a drowning man from their entangling masses drowning was an evil dreaded by him, as he had never been able to learn to swim.

He lay there smoking and thinking over his lucky escape. Franklyn would not renew again-that he was sure of: poor Woods! He wondered how he would manage; it would teach him a little life and business, and his uncle, Mr. Barron, ought to do something for the lad; it was