"Thank you," said Horace quietly. the fact that Sir Maingay meant well.

He recognised

"Besides," continued the baronet, "Beatrice is entirely her own mistress. She has a will of her own. I have no power over her fortune, which, by the bye, is almost as large as my own. This is just as it should be, because with those sons of mine it will be impossible for me to add to her income at my death." So he rattled on, bringing out what was really a justification of himself.

"My dear Maingay," said Horace mildly, "would it not be better if you heard what we have to say and made your comments afterwards ?"

"It would be a great deal better, Maingay," said Herbert. From the days of their first acquaintance they had always assumed this air of superiority over the respectable nobleman. He had never even struggled against it. So he obeyed and was silent.

They told him all about Beatrice. Her letter they could not show him, having forgotten to ask Frank to return it. Sir Maingay listened, but did not appear much upset.

"We will of course take any steps you wish, or aid you in any steps you may take," said Horace, in conclusion. "It's a nuisance, but I don't see any steps to be taken," said Sir Maingay composedly.

"Neither do we. But we felt it right you should know

at once."

'Quite so. As I said, Beatrice always had a will of her own. She is full of strange freaks-full of them. As you know, for some extraordinary reasons, she wouldn't be presented, and can't live in the same house with her mother

"

"Her mother!" exclaimed the Talberts in a breath, and glancing simultaneously at a certain picture on the wall; an upright landscape which filled the space once occupied by the portrait of Sir Maingay's "ALL."

The baronet coloured. "With my wife, I mean. You may be sure this is but a freak of the girl's. She has her maid with her, you say-a respectable, middle-aged woman.

Oh, it will be all right. Perhaps she means to write a book. Ladies do all sorts of things to write books nowadays. Lady Fanny Beaumont went through Patagonia and shot some niggers or something. There's another lady who roughs it in Italy and Spain. Fancy Spain, Herbert! You know what a beastly hole Spain is. Women do all sorts of out-of-the-way things now."

Some women," said Horace severely. His ideal woman, if he had one, did no strange things. "However, if you are contented there is nothing more to say."

"I'm not contented. It's a nuisance to think of a child you love wandering Heaven knows where. But she'll turn up all right again. Ah! here's my wife; we'll hear what she thinks of it."

Lady Clauson entered looking, as usual, very beautiful. Horace and Herbert rose and greeted her with solemn gallantry. They were always particularly attentive and courteous to Sir Maingay's second wife. This the lady attributed to her charms. She was quite wrong. The Talberts were only anxious to show that if Sir Maingay chose to marry again it was a matter of no concern to them.

Lady Clauson was told the news. She turned to her husband triumphantly. As many better bred people sometimes do, she forgot herself. "I always told you she would do something disgraceful," said her ladyship.

"My dear! my dear Isabel!" said Sir Maingay. He glanced timidly at his brothers-in-law.

Horace and Herbert rose like two figures worked by one spring. Their calm eyes looked down their straight noses and concentrated their gaze on Lady Clauson, who turned very red.

"Madam," said Horace, "the members of our family, and, I believe I may say, of Sir Maingay's family, are not in the habit of doing disgraceful things. Beatrice may have left us unadvisedly, but I am certain her reason, if known, would meet with her father's and with our approval."

Lady Clauson at once saw her mistake and apologised humbly. An apology which the brothers accepted grace

fully. Then after having been shown the nursery treasures they took their leave.

"Maingay does not improve as he grows older," said Horace. Herbert shook his head mournfully as one who wished to gainsay a fact but dare not.

Lady Clauson, in spite of her apology, told her husband that Beatrice had done something disgraceful. "Oh no, my dear," said Sir Maingay. "It's only a freak. You know, I won't say for what reason, she can't come back here to live. Well, she's grown tired of life down at Oakbury. I don't wonder at it. Horace and Herbert are two regular old women. They darn their own stockings, make antimacassars, and all sorts of things. She was ashamed to say she was tired of the life, so went off on her own account."

It

Here was yet another motive attributed to Beatrice. Nothing is more risky than the attributing of motives. is as dangerous as prophesying before the event.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A WORD IN SEASON.

AFTER one or two unsuccessful attempts Carruthers found Mrs. John Rawlings installed behind the family counter at No. 142 Gray Street. She was very hard at work-no doubt endeavouring to make up for her husband's repeated absences. In her hands she held what appeared like a long salmon-coloured two-inch rope, which, by a dexterous twist of the wrist, or some manipulation only known to the initiated, she was rapidly transforming into ornamental and symmetrical festoons of those luscious articles of diet, sausages. Upon learning that Carruthers wished to speak to her in private, she wiped her hands on a cloth, and lifting up a flap, or species of drawbridge, in the counter, begged he would step through and follow her upstairs.

He did so, and was shown into what Mrs. Rawlings called the parlour; a room papered with a startling paper, carpeted with a dazzling carpet; furnished with imitation walnut chairs and couch upholstered in the brightest blue tapestry; the mantelpiece bearing a mirror in a burnished gilt frame, and, among other gay ornaments, a huge pair of those glass vases with suspended prisms known as lustres; the fire glowed very brightly, and was kept in order by a fender and fire-irons of flashing steel. It was, in fact, a room which appeared to open its eyes and glare at you as you entered. A man even more anxious and preoccupied than Frank was could not fail to be struck with the general effect. It would have been positively ungracious not to have noticed it.

"What a bright room!" he said.

"It is a bright room," said Mrs. Rawlings in a gratified way. "You see, sir, we often kill as many as thirty pigs before breakfast."

This seemed a digression without bearing upon the main subject. "Poor things!" said Frank, without making it clear whether he referred to the pigs or their slayers.

"At first, when I married Rawlings, I found it a melancholy business; so I made up my mind to have everything away from the factory bright and cheerful."

66 You have succeeded here," said Frank, as he took the azure-covered chair offered him.

"I hope so. You see, sir," continued Mrs. Rawlings, every business has its drawbacks as well as its advantages. Many don't like the pork business, but it's a nice clean business-there's no dust about it like there is about baking. I hate dust of any sort."

At another time Carruthers might have been amused and have tried to draw this woman out, but he was now only anxious to hear about Beatrice, so he commenced his inquisition.

Yes; Mrs. Rawlings had been at Blacktown. She had stayed at the "Cat and Compasses." She, or rather her husband, had believed a little boy to be their missing son. A young lady had called upon her one morning. She gave no name, but she was a tall young lady; very handsome; and with gray eyes; beautifully dressed; in fact quite a young lady. Yes, poor thing! quite a lady.

Would Mrs. Rawlings tell her visitor what had been said or done at that interview? Oh no-never. The good woman shut her eyes, compressed her lips, and shook her head slowly and solemnly. The combined effects of these actions being meant to show that Beatrice's communication was for ever locked up in the sacred repository of her heart.

Mrs. Rawlings really meant to keep Beatrice's secret, and doubtless had no pressure been applied she would have kept it loyally. But unluckily she was one of those who have to struggle to retain a secret, not only its main body, but little corners which would slip out unawares. In trying