these collars. This is the last of the set. You're
late. Very busy at the office?"

"No; not very. I went to Watty's. He
was not at home, but I left a note to say he
must come and see mother to-morrow."

"Oh," said Penelope, dryly. Then she looked
wistfully at her brother. He had drawn back
the blind, and was standing by the window
looking on to the waste ground mysteriously
transformed beneath the moonlight. "You are
awfully fagged, Clem, and so pale! Or is it the
moonlight on your face? No; you do look
shockingly harassed. I'm sure you are worrying
yourself about those anonymous letters.
Shake it off, Clem. Why don't you good people
have faith in the power of goodness?"

"No, Penny; no, indeed, my dear girl, it is
not that. It is,—I—I do feel a little fagged.
But I don't need or deserve so much sympathy.
Good night, dear; you must be tired. I will
go to bed at once."

"Ah!" said Penelope to herself, lying wakefully
in her bed, "he can't deceive me. I know
Clem so well. Every tone of his voice, every trick
of his face; and I am sure he has been bothering
himself about Watty and those letters!"

No. The locked silent chambers of her brother's
brain kept their secret even from her
keen scrutiny. Walter might never have been
born, and the anonymous letters never written,
for all the part they were playing in Clement's
thoughts. What were the visions that flitted
through the hot head he laid upon his pillow?

A shining satin dress; a pale, passionate face
leaning down from a high quaint balcony; a
white-robed figure huddled hopelessly upon the
ground, with its dark hair streaming over the
breast of a dead lover. And then a solitary
crimson flower lying unheeded on the stage,
and the sweeping flow of long trailing garments
as their wearer bowed "farewell!"

CHAPTER IV. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

MABEL EARNSHAW lived with her mother and
Dooley in a pleasant house in one of the most
sequestered of the Highgate lanes. Her great
and assured success, surpassing even the
expectations of those who most highly estimated
her talent—for, as Mr. Alaric Allen said,
"there's a certain element of chance in these
tilings always, and if you miss fire at the first
attempt, the public seldom has leisure to allow
you a second trial-shot"—had enabled her to
take this pretty residence, to surround her
mother with many long disused luxuries, and
to enjoy the happiness of seeing her little brother
frolicking on a green lawn, instead of
being mewed up in the small close rooms of
their Dublin lodgings. Dooley was in high
delight. He had parted from kind Aunt Mary
and her family with regret, and had particularly
missed Jack, with whom he had formed a close
friendship, and whose versatile talents had
impressed him deeply. But to be with mamma
and Tibby was in itself a balm for any sorrows
Dooley had yet known; and when, after a few
weeks' sojourn at a London hotel, he was taken
to the Highgate cottage embowered in trees,
and shut in from the noisy world by thick
fragrant green hedges, his joy and excitement
knew no bounds. Mabel's face grew bright as
she watched the little fellow's eager interest in
all around him, and the investigations throughout
the house and grounds which his spirit of
inquiry led him to make. There was a small
white-curtained, fresh, cozy nest of a room, with
ivy leaves tapping at its casement, that was
reserved for "Master Julian." And there was
a ruddy-faced country girl standing at the door
of it to welcome him, who ran and caught him
in her arms and hugged him, and laughed and
cried altogether, and who proved to be the
faithful Betty, secretly sent for from Hazlehurst
to surprise him. And in the kitchen there was
—yes, there was indeed—a kitten; smooth and
beautiful of fur, and bright of eye, and with a
collar round its neck, to which a little bell was
fastened that jingled cheerfully. "She are a
very nice pussy-kitten,"said Dooley, stroking
her with a thoughtful face. "A bootiful pussy-
kitten; but I tan't love her quite so much as
my own old pussy-kitten, tan I, Tibby? Because
my own old pussy-kitten was so sorry when I
did go away. And dis little pussy-kitten has
never been sorry. And I must love de sorry
one best, mustn't I, Tibby?"

Mrs. Saxelby nestled down into the pleasant
home provided for her with child-like satisfaction.
Her natural taste, and love of refinement
and beauty in all her surroundings, were
gratified to the utmost. And then her mother's
heart exulted with the proud thought, "This is
my Mabel's doing! All these good things
represent her energy, industry, and genius, and
the public recognition of those qualities." For
all trace of horror and disapproval of the means
by which Mabel was earning fame and fortune
had vanished from Mrs. Saxelby's mind long
ago. Not precisely on conviction—although
an intimate knowledge of Mary Walton's life
and home might have sufficed to modify on
strictly logical grounds the sweeping condemnation
that Mr. Saxelby and the Flukes were
wont to utter against stage-players—but simply
because Mrs. Saxelby had now been living for
some time under the influence of people in
whose eyes the actor's calling was an honourable
one. In the first days of Mabel's experience
as a London actress, Mrs. Saxelby had
accompanied her daughter to the theatre each
evening, and had sat in her dressing-room, or had
occasionally ventured into the green-room for ten
minutes at a time, never remaining there an
instant after Mabel had quitted it for the stage.
But for a day or two preceding Clement Charlewood's
unpremeditated visit to the Thespian
Theatre, Mrs. Saxelby had been suffering from
a slight cold and sore-throat, which made it
desirable for her to avoid exposure to the night
air. Therefore Mabel had driven to the theatre
for several evenings with no other escort than
the faithful Betty, who came provided with a
large worsted stocking to knit. Betty had
never sufficiently got over her awe and admiration
of the glittering stage garments to venture
upon handling them. As to acting the part of