She kissed Beatrice's hand. She fawned upon her almost like a dog. Her mistress seemed scarcely to hear her words scarcely to notice her actions.

"It was bound to come," she said dreamily. "I have been waiting for it for weeks. The sword was over my head. I knew it must fall. Where is he ?" she added.

"He was here, close at hand," said Sarah. Then noticing Beatrice's shudder: "He has gone away for a while but I saw him. He gave me a message. Oh my dear, my dear! You must expect no mercy."

"I expect none. I will ask for none. Give me the message."

Mrs. Miller gave it word for word and then handed her the paper with the address. "I must go," said Beatrice. "There is no help for it. The shame which I dared not face-the crash I shrank like a coward from preparing for— has come. Well, if all must be known it will rid my life of the deceit which for years has made it a burden."

She turned away, entered the nursery and kissed the boy. Suddenly she gave the nurse a frightened look. "You saw him," she said; "did he see the boy?”

Mrs. Miller nodded sadly.

"Did he know-did he guess ?"

"He said nothing. But oh, my poor dear! there was something in his manner that made me tremble-something that told me he guessed all."

"Then Heaven help me!" said Beatrice, leaving the

room.

She went to her bedroom in which she stayed for hours. Hours during which she lived again in thought the whole of her life during the past five years. Years which had turned her from a light-hearted, impulsive girl into a grave and saddened woman. A woman who partly by her own folly, partly by the crime and cruelty of another, found herself to-day in as sore a plight as ever woman knew.

CHAPTER XX.

WHAT SHE LOOKED BACK UPON.

As the story of Beatrice's past is made up of things she knew, things she guessed, and things of which she knew nothing, it will be better to learn it in its veracious entirety than to glean it from the saddened musings that winter's afternoon.

After the battle-royal between Lady Clauson and her stepdaughter, and when Sir Maingay weakly and for the sake of peace left his daughter at home, whilst he fled to the Continent with that newly-acquired treasure, his beautiful wife, Beatrice settled down to the dullest of dull lives, or what certainly promised to be so unless the girl could brighten it by drawing on her own resources for amusement. On one point, however, she had nothing to complain of. A childless widow with a large income could not have enjoyed more freedom of action. Mrs. Erskine, the aunt, in whose care she was nominally placed, was old, wrapped up in her own varied ailments, and so selfish as to keep herself clear of suspecting people, because suspicion brought trouble and worry. Beatrice was free to spend her hours as it best suited her; to come and go as she chose, and generally to do what pleased herself. By this arrangement Mrs. Erskine saved herself much trouble and responsibility— things which are extremely injurious to an old gentlewoman in feeble health.

But Beatrice, who was in magnificent health, as all young girls of eighteen should be, soon found that to render life at Mrs. Erskine's worth living, she must find occupation for her lonely hours. Perhaps there were times

when the ideal pleasure and joy with which an untravelled mind invests a foreign tour, made her repent of her hastiness in disdaining to occupy a secondary place in her father's heart. But if it was so, her pride forbade any proposals of surrender. Nevertheless, something had to be done to make life tolerable. She cared little or nothing for general society, and even had she done so, the fact of her possessing few friends anywhere, and none in London, would have rendered her going out into the world a matter of difficulty.

So that Miss Clauson, who was a young lady of no mean abilities, and who had somehow imbibed the modern notion that if rightly directed a woman's brain-power is equal to a man's in acquiring knowledge, decided that the most satisfactory method by which time could be killed. was by continuing her studies from the point at which she laid them down when she left the fashionable finishing school.

Being also rather troubled by the feeling that she ought to do something for suffering humanity, she organised a little charitable scheme. She had plenty of pocket-money. Sir Maingay, who since old Talbert's death had received a considerable sum per annum, paid out of the trust, for his daughter's maintenance and education, behaved most generously in this respect. There is no salve to the con

science so efficacious as a money-sacrifice!

Beatrice, then, did what good she could on her own account. As a piteous tale always opened her purse, revilers of indiscriminate almsgiving may think little of her efforts. Perhaps they bore no fruit save in one noteworthy instance.

Charity brought her in contact with a woman who, from a variety of circumstances, had been reduced from the state of a superior domestic servant to abject poverty, and who was lying almost at death's door. Beatrice heard her history, relieved her wants, had her doctored and cured, and by these acts made the woman her slave for life. riveted the links for ever, when, fancying she could do with a maid, she, in spite of a grumble from her great-aunt, took

She

This

this woman, named Sarah Miller, into her service. happened in the early days of her sojourn at Mrs. Erskine's.

The course of study progressed. For the most part Beatrice taught herself. After a while it struck her she should like again to take up her drawing. Here, as her ambition rose higher than wishing to execute the usual schoolgirl masterpieces, she needed a master. A caller, an acquaintance of Mrs. Erskine's, gave her a name and address which had been given to her by some one else. Beatrice wrote and asked the artist's terms. He replied. She wrote again, accepting the terms and begging him to call on a certain day. So Maurice Hervey came into her life.

When first she saw him the girl was surprised to find she had summoned to her aid a young man of about twenty-five. But the age of a drawing-master appeared to Miss Clauson as a matter of secondary importance. So long as he knew his business what mattered if he was twenty-five or fifty-five.

Mrs. Erskine troubled nothing about the affair. She knew that a master gave her niece lessons twice or thrice a week. The old lady never even acquired his name. To her he was the drawing-master, no more and no less. There are many such old ladies as this!

In order that what happened may be read aright, two facts must be distinctly borne in mind. The first, that Beatrice Clauson was not then the stately and apparently emotionless young lady, whose calm and self-contained demeanour was such a subject of congratulation to her uncles, and such a puzzle to Frank Carruthers. She was but a girl of eighteen, proud if you will, but romantic, impulsive, and notwithstanding the shattering of the paternal idol, trustful of man and womankind. She was lonely; craved for sympathy; and in spite of her position in the world, her life, so far as she could see it, looked void and colourless. A long stretch without a visible goal. Lastly, she believed, as most young people of eighteen believe, that her judgment as to what was best for herself was infallible.

The second fact to be borne in mind is that Maurice Hervey at twenty-five was not, in appearance, the scowling, crafty-looking felon seen by Mrs. Miller in Portland prison, not even the malicious, mocking ruffian who confronted her on his release. The mask worn by the man when Beatrice first knew him fitted to perfection, and until the wearer chose showed no glimpse of the villainous, sordid nature it hid. He was decidedly good-looking, he was well-dressed, and if he carried a touch of the Bohemian about him, it was not more than was pleasant and compatible with the profession he followed. His hands, a matter upon which young girls set undue store, were white and well-formed. He was attentive and respectful in the discharge of his duties-doubly so after the first few lessons!

For by that time he had found out much about his pupil-not all he wanted to know, but a good deal. He had learnt that she was a baronet's daughter, and an heiress. He could not ascertain how much money she would come into or from whom it came. But, so far as it went, he believed his information to be trustworthy, and acted accordingly.

He began by awakening the girl's sympathy for his unworthy self. He told her, or, it might be said, conveyed to her prodigious lies about his own hard lot; he dilated on the drudgery of lesson-giving to a man who believed he had genius. So cleverly did he talk that Beatrice was persuaded that she was under an obligation to him for the very act of teaching. His lies were masterpieces, because he did not, like many self-styled neglected geniuses, believe in his own talents. The man knew that such skill as he possessed could make him, at the outside, a fifth-rate artist, or it might possibly be, a first-rate drawing-master.

But all the same he made Beatrice believe he was one day destined to storm the Royal Academy, and when once she believed this all differences in station between them vanished. Our age, as every one knows, is the triumph of

art.

Poor artists and struggling literary men do not now fawn upon lords-lords ask them to dinner and make much of them, or such is the common belief. So, now that Miss