CHAPTER XIV.

Comethup looked at him inquiringly and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Who was it?”

“Your uncle, Robert Carlaw. Said he’d had a great shock; that Brian had left him suddenly, without giving the slightest warning of where he was going or what his intentions were; he had merely left a curt note—I saw the note, and it was really very rude—a curt note saying he was going away, and did not intend to return or to trouble his father again. I suppose that mad fellow, your uncle, was fond of the boy in his way; at all events, he ramped and raved about the place, and talked of ingratitude, and serpents’ teeth, and thankless children, and what not, until I was quite glad to get rid of him. I wonder where the boy has gone?”

“I saw him yesterday,” said Comethup. “He came here—to the school, you know—to see me. He told me he was going to London to make his fortune; that he’d quarrelled with his father, and didn’t mean to go back to him. I was awfully surprised to see him.”

“But what’s he going to do in London, without friends and without money?” Then, as Comethup sat silent, looking before him, the captain dropped a hand on the boy’s arm. “Comethup, he didn’t come to you merely to say good-bye, after seeing nothing of you for eight years. I suppose you——”

“Oh, I could see that he was in distress,” broke in Comethup, hurriedly, “and when I’d got such a lot I couldn’t very well let him go to London without a penny. You see, London is a big place, and he might starve—anything might happen. So I just gave him—well, just a little money; and I told him to write to me and let me know how he was getting on; I gave him my address in London.”

The captain was silent for a few moments, and then he said: “Well, well, I suppose you were right; you couldn’t let the fellow go without a penny. But if I were you, Comethup, I shouldn’t mention the matter toyour aunt. I detest deceit, but there are some things it’s just as well in this world to say nothing about. Miss Carlaw—very properly, no doubt—dislikes your cousin, and she might be hurt if she thought you were spending her money on him. Personally, I don’t like the fellow, but I think it was the only thing you could do. But I don’t think I’d say anything to Miss Carlaw about it.”

It was quite a new sensation, and a very pleasant and exciting one, to drive into the old town seated beside the captain. The eight years, which had seemed to bring so many changes to the growing boy, had not changed the place at all; it appeared a little dwarfed, perhaps, grown smaller and less imposing; the gaunt old buildings, which had towered to the sky in the imagination of the small child, had dwindled, in the eyes of the youth, to mere ordinary dwellings. But, best of all, the things about it that were changeless were the solemn hush and peace that lay upon it, a stillness that belonged to no other place. The roar of London, the busy, murmuring life of school, were dropped completely behind; it was like coming home to rest, to some little place set in the heart of woods, after the toil and fret of a long day.

Homer was there, at the door of the captain’s cottage, saluting in the old fashion; he had grown a little grayer and a little less erect in attitude. The old familiar room, looking out over the garden and the street, seemed smaller than before and a little shabbier. Of everything the boy remembered so well, the captain alone seemed as though the years had leaped over him and left him unaltered.

Comethup was up very early the next morning—long before the captain had risen; he had a feeling that he would like to visit some of the old places alone. He lifted the latch of the cottage door—for no one thought of locking doors in that part of the country—and stole out softly through the garden and into the street. One or two early risers whom he passed looked at him curiously, and he thought he recognised some faces he had seen in the streets as a child. He sniffed the sweet morning air with delight, thinking how good it was to berich and free and healthy; he might have thought, too, how good it was to be very young, but for the fact that he did not consciously appreciate that blessing.

He went to the house in which he had been born; it was held by strangers now, and there were curtains of a hideous colour in the windows, and one of the blinds had been drawn up by a careless hand and hung awry. But the roses were there in all their beauty—roses grown for other hands to pluck and to delight other eyes. He leaned over the little gate which led from the street and looked about him; looked into all the familiar corners that had held such terrors for him when he had been very young indeed; thought of the mother who had wandered there, as he had heard his father describe. And that brought him quite naturally to the churchyard, where he found the two mounds—a little less prominent than they had been—side by side, with some fresh flowers upon them. He knew that the flowers must have come from the captain, and his heart swelled a little, with renewed gratitude to his old friend.

It was too early for breakfast yet, and he set off through the town; aimlessly, as he told himself, and yet of fixed purpose. There seemed to be but one place that he desired to visit, and his pulses thumped a little, in an unaccustomed fashion, as he drew near to it; it was the garden in which he had found ’Linda.

The years had brought one change on the very threshold of it: one of the gates—that which had hung by a single hinge so long—had given way completely, and lay prone upon the grass inside, half covered with dead leaves and choking weeds. Comethup picked his way across it and walked cautiously under the trees. Bright as the morning was, it seemed quite dark here, and he shivered a little as he went on. He almost expected to see a little figure he remembered so clearly spring up again in his path and run to him, crying his name; but no one was in the garden, and only a bird fluttered among the leaves and cried in quick alarm to his mate. He made the circuit of the house, and looked up at the blankwindows; but the place seemed quite deserted, and he came away, wondering a little impatiently where the girl could be, and filled with a determination to invoke the aid of the captain in order that he might see her.

A glance at his watch told him that the captain’s breakfast hour was near at hand, and he hurried back to the cottage. As he drew near to it he saw that some one was in the garden—a young girl, tall and slim, in a sober gray gown, with little ruffles at the throat and wrists. Her back was turned toward him, and she was busily gathering the choicest of the captain’s roses. Even then no suspicion of her identity entered his mind; he stopped for a moment, wondering, and then walked to the gate and pushed it open.

The click of the iron latch caught her ear, and she turned swiftly, with the roses held close against her breast. Comethup caught his breath as he looked at her. Something strangely familiar, and yet strangely unfamiliar, was in her attitude, and in the glance she gave him; he was still tugging at his memory and hesitating on that half recognition of her, when she came forward slowly, smiling and colouring a little. And then he knew her.

“’Linda!” he faltered, and pulled his cap off awkwardly.

She thrust the bundle of roses into the curve of one arm and shyly held out her hand to him, yet with a self-possession that only increased his nervousness. He took the hand and held it, and did not quite know what to do with it, until she released it, and laughed, and looked at her roses.

“The captain told me you were coming, Comethup,” she said. And then, quite irrelevantly, “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

“Lovely,” murmured Comethup absently, looking at her rather than at the sky. “I—I’ve been looking for you at—at the old house.”

“Have you? I got up quite early this morning; we must have missed each other. You see, the captain likesroses, and I thought that these would look nice—in a bowl, you know—on the breakfast table.”

“I’m sure they will,” said Comethup, getting his voice a little under control and wondering vaguely why his throat was so dry. “Do you know, I didn’t know you at first, ’Linda; I’d quite forgotten that you’d be—be grown up. It’s such a long time, you see; everything seems to have altered.”

“Yes.You’ve altered, Comethup, very much.” She plucked another rose and added it to the bunch, and pressed her face down upon them. Without looking up, she said, “Shall we go in and put them in water?”

“Yes, I think we’d better.” He was so much in awe of her that he was quite afraid to come near her, and kept his distance, accordingly, in the narrow path. He opened the door for her, and, in her nervousness, she caught her foot on the step and tumbled against him; they both blushed and laughed, and she dropped some of the roses. Comethup stooped to pick them up, and found that they were not at all easy things to get hold of; they seemed to slip out of his fingers as easily as they had slipped out of hers. However, they were all picked up at last, and the two went together into the captain’s little sitting room.

There a bowl had to be found, and Comethup was quite glad to get away for a moment to fetch water, in order that he might recover his feelings. She was very busy with the flowers when he came back, setting them in place in the big bowl, and singing softly to herself as she did so. Once, when a flower fell over the edge, Comethup sprang to reach it, and their hands met on the table; the hand and arm seemed to burn, and he wondered, desperately and foolishly, if his face had turned red, and why it was so impossible to talk naturally and easily to her—why, indeed, he could find nothing to talk about.

The entrance of the captain seemed to put them both at their ease. He came a little way into the room and stood there, with his hands behind him, looking witha pleased smile at Comethup and at the face of the girl glancing up at him from the flowers. She nodded brightly to him and ran across and took him by the lapels of his coat and kissed him.

“So you stole a march on me, eh?” said the captain, glancing from one to the other. “While the old boy is asleep you two youngsters have been getting the benefit of the morning air, eh? Well, you look as bright and fresh as the morning, both of you.—What do you think of her, Comethup?”

Comethup laughed and blushed, shifted from one foot to the other, and weakly hazarded the opinion that she had grown.

“Grown!” exclaimed the captain. “I should think so. Time stands still with the old ones, but, Lord! what a change a year or two makes! Why, I remember the time when I had to stoop and bend my old back for her to stand on tiptoe to kiss me; and now—well, look at her, boy; I can keep as straight as a lance, and still the rogue’s lips can reach me. So you didn’t lose time about finding your old playmate, Comethup.”

“Well, sir,” said Comethup, “I found her in the garden here, only a few minutes ago.”

“Yes,” broke in ’Linda, “but he says that he’d been to look for me, and couldn’t find me.”

“And yet found you after all, eh? Trust him for that. Now let’s have some breakfast.”

’Linda, after a little protest, took off her hat and sat down with them. She kept very near to the captain, and seldom looked at Comethup, save now and then shyly, after he had found his tongue, and was relating in boyish fashion some of his school adventures. The captain threw in interjectional remarks for ’Linda’s benefit, such as “There’s a boy for you!” or “What do you think of that now?” and others to the like effect. After breakfast, the girl, in seeming haste, put on her hat and hurriedly kissed the captain, shyly touched Comethup’s hand, and prepared to depart. Comethup found his courage then and said blushingly:

“You know I’m only stopping with the captain for a week, ’Linda. I suppose—I hope I shall see you—very often?”

The captain broke in heartily before she had time to reply. “Why, of course; you must come to breakfast every morning, and then we can plan some excursion for the day and make the most of our time.”

“Yes,” urged Comethup eagerly. “We might go for a drive sometimes, you know. It would be rather jolly, sir”—he turned to the captain appealingly—“it would be jolly if we could go for a picnic one day, and take our lunch with us, wouldn’t it? You see, ’Linda, we could go wherever you liked.”

“That would be splendid!” said the girl, clasping her hands. “I’ve never been for a drive in my life.”

“Then we’ll go to-morrow,” said Comethup. “We can start directly after breakfast and make a day of it.”

The captain and Comethup spent that first day in strolling about the neighbourhood and sitting out on the sandy hillocks beyond the town, talking—mostly of the future—and dreaming old dreams over again of the past. There seemed so much to be said in that familiar atmosphere; it seemed so easy to live over again the old days, when Comethup had known no other existence.

On the day arranged for the picnic ’Linda came running into the garden just as breakfast was placed on the table; breathlessly kissed the captain, and shook hands with Comethup; announced, with a roguish shake of her head, that she would not take off her hat, as they were to start so soon; and chattered ceaselessly and happily about everything—the weather, the horses that were to take them, the road by which they should go, and a thousand other things. Comethup had ordered a capacious carriage from the inn the night before—an open carriage to hold four, with two horses. Homer—most wonderful of men—had prepared a huge luncheon basket, to the contents of which Comethup had added a couple of bottles of claret. The carriage drew up at the gate just as they had finished breakfast, and ’Linda ran out to inspect it.

Comethup followed her, and stood beside her at the gate, waiting for the captain. “I’m so glad,” he said, slowly, “that it’s a fine day, and—and that you’re so pleased.”

She turned round swiftly, her dark eyes dancing. “Oh, it’s the first real holiday I’ve ever had; I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about it. But”—her brows wrinkled a little anxiously—“won’t this cost—cost a lot of money?” She waved her hand toward the carriage.

“No, not much,” said Comethup carelessly. “Besides, it doesn’t matter; we’ll have a jolly day, and you know I’ve got plenty of money.”

He heard a sigh flutter from her lips, and had a boyish longing to tell her that he should like to share every penny he had, or every penny he ever would have, with her; that she might never have any fear that he would go away and leave her without a holiday. He was almost making up his mind to say that he would give her just such a holiday as this every day of his life, irrespective of weather, when the captain came down the path and joined them, followed by Homer staggering under the weight of the luncheon basket.

The captain had a new tie for the occasion, and was dressed in his best; he gallantly handed ’Linda in, and she and Comethup took their places at the back of the carriage, the captain facing them. The captain was in high feather; heard the regular beat of the horses’ hoofs behind him, and held himself more erect in consequence. Comethup and ’Linda sat silent, except when they answered the captain’s remarks, or when ’Linda said something about the beauty of the day, or of the scenery, on which occasions Comethup eagerly and cordially indorsed her opinion.

They were to drive to a little wood the beauty of which was celebrated in the neighbourhood, although neither the captain nor his companions had ever penetrated so far. It was some fifteen miles distant, near a little old-world village, and they leaned back contentedly in their seats with the prospect of a long and pleasantdrive before them. Suddenly, from the side of the road, they heard a hail, and the horses were drawn up sharply. Comethup turned about, and saw a figure hurrying toward them—the figure of a man, with long coat-tails flapping in the wind and a hand waving to them. The captain frowned a little, and muttered something under his breath. The figure came rapidly nearer, and disclosed itself as that of Mr. Robert Carlaw, heated and flushed; a little more full of habit, Comethup thought, than in former days, and a little more red in the face, but the same smiling, swaggering Robert Carlaw as of old.

He stopped at the carriage door, and pulled off his hat with a flourish to ’Linda; saw Comethup, and fell back a step, in delighted amazement. “What!” he cried, “is it possible that I look again upon the little nephew of whom I have thought so often? And yet, little no longer. Alas! time works changes upon us all. My boy”—he spoke with some emotion—“give me your hand. Little Comethup! And so you’ve come back to your old haunts, you lucky man of fortune, to turn the heads of all the pretty girls, eh?” He glanced at ’Linda, and smiled and shook his head. “Gad! you make me wish my youth could come back to me, although I never hadyourchances. With good looks, and fortune, and youth—well, the ball’s at your feet now; you’re a lucky rascal. And so we drive our carriage, do we?”

Comethup had shaken hands with him somewhat diffidently. “I am very glad to see you, uncle,” he said, as soon as Mr. Carlaw had finished speaking. “We’re just off for a picnic; I’m staying with the captain for a week, before I go on to London. I’ve just left school, you know.”

“A picnic! Oh, for the days of picnics, and pretty faces, and murmuring brooks, and the deuce knows what else! Gone, alas! forever. But what do I see? A vacant seat. Youth and beauty on one side, and crabbed age on the other. Gad! I’ll balance you; youth and beauty run in couples, captain—crabbed age shall pair as well. I’ll join you.”

He had the carriage door open and a foot on the step before any one could speak. But the captain put out a hand. “My dear sir,” he said, “I can assure you that we did not contemplate an addition——”

But Mr. Robert Carlaw cut him short. “Not a word, not a word,” he exclaimed. “Picnics are like all other joyous things in the world—the more the merrier. And I’m not a great eater, by any means.” He was into the carriage by this time, and had dropped with a sigh of contentment beside the captain, thrusting that little gentleman ruthlessly out of the way. He closed the door, and the carriage moved on again.

He had taken the matter so completely by storm, and it was so impossible to tell him that he wasn’t wanted, and to stop the carriage and thrust him out again, that the three holiday-makers resigned themselves to the inevitable and sat in awkward silence, casting furtive glances at him.

AN INCUBUS, AND THE DEMON OF JEALOUSY.

Of all the people in their small world, it is possible that Mr. Robert Carlaw was quite the last they would have chosen as a companion for what had promised to be a happy day. He sat for some time in gloomy thought, waking now and then to a sudden smile, as though joyousness were expected of him, but showing plainly that the effort cost him something, and was difficult. The lightness had gone out of the others, too; they sat more stiffly than they had done, and looked anywhere but at him. At last, with a sigh, he broke the silence.

“I can not tell you,” he began, “how grateful I am to Providence that I met you. For me the sun shines no more; blackness creeps about me. If I should laugh a little in the sun to-day, if I should be glad that brightfaces are before me”—he bowed toward the young people—“believe that it is only a passing thing, and that despair—horrible despair—will claim me for its own within a few hours. Sir”—he turned abruptly on the captain—“I am a most unhappy man.”

“Indeed, I am sorry to hear it,” replied the captain coldly.

“A most unhappy man,” pursued the other. “I have been stung, sir, stung to the quick; I have nursed—nay, fondled—a viper in my bosom, with the inevitable result. I allude, sir, to my son. Debts I could have forgiven, recklessness I could condone—it is in the blood, and must out; but ingratitude, never! When I think of all that that boy owes to me—his talents, his education, everything—I feel that it is too much. Even the family temper—the temper that will take him far—he owes to me. And now, sir, what does he do?”

The captain shifted uneasily in his seat, and Comethup looked distressed; ’Linda had turned her head away.

“He forsakes me in my declining years; mocks the hand that fed him; leaves me to loneliness and despair. And yet, foolish creature that I am, my heart still yearns for him; my hearth is still warm for him. After all,” he pursued, in a lighter vein, “I suppose I have no right to complain. As I have said, it is in the blood; he bears the taint that has kept his wretched father down in the world, and yet—thank God!—the taint which has kept him a gentleman.” His breast swelled, and he shook his head valiantly.

No one quite knew what to say, and there was an awkward silence. Comethup glanced at ’Linda, but she was still looking out across the country, and he could not clearly see her face.

“I suppose,” went on Mr. Robert Carlaw, rapidly regaining his more joyous manner—“I suppose that one must expect that young birds will try their wings, and fly from the nest in time. I trust that he will fly strongly; I’msurehe will fly strongly. But he was made for better things than to seek his fortune in the rough-and-tumbleof the world. Like his unfortunate father, he is a disappointed man; he should have had a fortune, but for the caprices—there, there, we will say no more of that. I had hoped, too, that he might have remained, for another reason; I had almost believed that a childish attachment was ripening into—but no matter; time will show.”

Comethup glanced at ’Linda again; her face was still averted, but on her cheek he could see that a sudden flush had grown, and that her hands were toying nervously with a ribbon at her waist. Deep down in his heart a little sudden chill of uneasiness sprang up and clouded the day for him; he had a quick memory of the last time he had traversed that road in a carriage as a child, when he had seen his cousin and the girl strolling down a lane together, the boy’s arm round her neck. He wanted to spring up and tell Mr. Robert Carlaw that it wasn’t true, that no one wanted him there, and that he was spoiling everything and making every one unhappy. But he sat still, and for a time they drove on in silence.

The picnic was not a success. The day was perfect, Homer’s catering of the best, and the wine excellent; but, hovering over all, was the melancholy spirit of Mr. Robert Carlaw, accompanied, strangely enough, in Comethup’s mind at least, by another spirit—that of a bright-faced, handsome fellow, wandering alone in a big city and fighting hard against desperate odds. Certainly Mr. Carlaw did his best to be agreeable; showed much alacrity in opening bottles and spreading out the contents of the basket; was eager in his attentions to Comethup, whom he persistently styled “my lucky nephew.” Indeed, it became evident that he was anxious to ingratiate himself in Comethup’s good graces; he pressed wine upon him, as though the feast had been of his giving; sat beside him and flattered him with talk of the boy’s school career—of which he professed to have heard minute details; and generally endeavoured to be very lively and agreeable.

After the meal was ended, and they had all regained something of their lost spirits, ’Linda laughingly announcedthat she was going to search for fairies in the wood, and ran off among the trees; Comethup sprang up and went after her. But even here Robert Carlaw was not to be shaken off; he cried out something about his youth returning, and plunged after them. The fairies were forgotten, and Comethup strolled sulkily beside her, with Mr. Robert Carlaw close at his elbow, swinging his stick jauntily and humming an air.

“A word with you, my dear nephew,” he said, linking his arm in that of the boy and bending his head toward him. “Our young friend here does not matter, and is probably”—he smiled and nodded at her—“sympathetic. I have always had a kindly feeling for you, my dear boy. In the case of another man, who carried his heart less openly on his sleeve than I do, that feeling might have been lessened by the fact that an inscrutable Providence thrust you into my boy’s place. But that, sir, does not influence me; my heart rings true to those of my own blood, those I would call my friends, without any consideration of mere earthly gain to influence me. In a word, boy”—this with charming frankness—“I like you; fortune has not spoiled you, and I feel that there is much in our natures—simplicity and guilelessness—that is akin. I want you to look upon me as your friend; I do not want us to lose sight of each other. The world is a wicked place, full, I am told, of schemers and double dealers. You may need protection; count on me. Remember that my poor house, such as it is, is open to you. I may be coming to London—probably in search of my truant—and we may meet. There are those in London who know Bob Carlaw—good fellows all, mind you, and gentlemen—and I promise you sha’n’t have a dull moment. Oh, I assure you Bob is well known in town—among the best.”

Comethup, who was really a little captivated by the man’s manner, murmured politely that he would be very glad to see him in town, and that he was quite sure they would always be good friends. Mr. Robert Carlaw wrung his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, and appeared very grateful and very much moved. So complete was hisgratitude, indeed, that he was not to be shaken off in any way; he kept quite close to his young friend until they were all ready to get again into the carriage.

The drive home was a silent one, at least for some part of it. Within a few miles of the town Mr. Robert Carlaw fell into a heavy slumber, and the three drew heads together and conversed in whispers. Comethup, who had not been very happy all day, received unexpected comfort, for, as he sat beside the girl, he suddenly felt her warm, slim fingers slipped into his hand, and he held them softly until the carriage stopped. If the captain saw anything, he was discreet enough not to appear to notice it.

They shook Mr. Carlaw to consciousness at his own gate. He was profuse in apologies and thanks, and it was somewhat difficult to get rid of him; indeed, he ran back to the carriage just as it was starting, to grasp Comethup again by the hand and to look fervently into his eyes.

They all got out at the captain’s cottage, and ’Linda and Comethup lingered for a moment in the garden among the roses, while the captain went inside. When the captain came out again, smoking, the girl announced that she must go home at once; it was getting late. Comethup immediately offered to escort her, and she kissed the captain and went off with the boy down the road in the twilight.

Now there were a hundred things which Comethup wished to say; a hundred indefinite and tantalizing matters to which he seemed vaguely to seek an answer. But the boy was more afraid of this slip of a girl than he had ever been of anything or any one in all his life; the very flutter of her dress in the semi-darkness, the light touch of a ribbon-end which blew out and whipped his hand once as he walked beside her, were disquieting and awe-inspiring things. He tried frantically, as he had tried before, to hark back to the old days when they had been children, and she had clung to him and cried upon his shoulder. But this was no child; this was something wonderful, that had her eyes and her voice, and a suggestionof her in many little ways; but it was a different being, and the child of old times might have been a ghost indeed, as he had once believed, for anything she had in common with this girl. Yet something must be said, and he plunged at the matter.

“’Linda!”

She looked round at him quickly. “Yes,” she said.

“I’m so awfully glad that—that you’ve been able to go with us there. I mean that I——”

“Oh, it’s been glorious! I can feel the swing of the carriage now, even while I’m walking. And it’s been such a lovely day! Of course, it would have been better if Mr. Carlaw hadn’t dropped down upon us; but it was very nice as it was.”

“It—it wouldn’t have been half so nice if—if you hadn’t been there,” ventured Comethup, trembling. “I mean that I—oh, I haven’t had a chance of saying how glad I was to find that you—that you remembered me, and—and liked me; you know I had all the messages you sent me while I was at school; I haven’t forgotten one of them; I couldn’t forget them.”

“Oh, yes; the captain always asked me if I had any message for you, and so—and so of course I sent them.”

“But you—you didn’t mind sending them; I mean you liked sending them,” said Comethup, hurriedly.

“Why, of course; we had been such good friends, and I——”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Comethup, eagerly. “We were always good friends, weren’t we?—and although I’ve been away so long, still that doesn’t make any difference, does it? What I wanted to say was that—that I hope you won’t forget me when I’ve gone to London; that I shall be able to see you sometimes. You won’t forget me, will you, ’Linda?”

They had reached the gate leading into her father’s garden, and they passed in together. She looked round at him for a moment and smiled, and held out her hand quite frankly, with much of the girlish bashfulness gone. “No, I sha’n’t forget you, Comethup,” she said. “Isha’n’t forget that you were my first friend. Do you remember the night, long ago, when you found me here in this garden? And then afterward you brought the captain to me. How could I forget?”

He took the hand, and held it in both his own. “I was quite sure you wouldn’t, ’Linda,” he said, gladly. “I never forgot you all the years I was at school, although I couldn’t see you. But I’ll see you often now; I shall be coming down from London to see the captain, I expect.”

“London?” she said, absently. “Every one seems to go to London. Brian has gone there.”

There came again that little chill feeling at his heart to curb his gladness. “Yes,” he said, slowly, “I suppose you’ve seen a great deal of Brian?”

“Oh, there was no one else to see, except the captain. Brian and I have always been good friends; I think he was quite sorry to go away from me.”

Comethup stirred the leaves impatiently with his foot. “I suppose—I suppose you’re very—very fond of Brian?”

She laughed gayly, and twisted herself so that her skirt twirled about her. “Oh, yes,” she said, “we got on very well together. He was always getting into trouble, poor boy, and then he used to come to me for advice. You see, I’d known him always; we met each other every day.”

Comethup found himself making a rough calculation of what eight times three hundred and sixty-five would be, but checked himself in the midst of it to ask, “I suppose—you’re ever so much fonder of him than you are of me?”

She laughed again, and took a step or two toward the house, then came back to him. “I didn’t say so,” she said, softly. “Besides, what does it matter?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Comethup. “Only I should like you—I should like you to be fond of me; I should like——”

“Iamfond of you, Comethup,” she said; and laughedagain, in that provoking fashion she had. He laughed too, then, and held out his hand sheepishly.

“Good-night, ’Linda,” he said.

She slipped her fingers round his, and drew nearer to him. “Don’t be cross,” she said, in a whisper. “I love all my friends. You may kiss me if you like.”

She turned one cheek toward him, and he bent forward reverently and touched it with his lips. Then, waving her hand to him, she sped away between the trees toward the house. He stood for some moments looking after her, and then turned and walked back to the captain’s cottage, with his head in a whirl. He was quite certain of two things: that ’Linda was the most beautiful woman in the world, and that he was desperately in love with her and would be prepared to face all things for her sake, and perform prodigies of valour for her, and go out, if need be, a lonely exile, carrying a broken heart in his bosom and a stern yet gentle face to his fellows—all of which he knew was the proper thing to do, from the manly standpoint, in the present state of his feelings.

He saw ’Linda almost every day during his stay in the old town; they walked and drove with the captain, and came, toward the end of the week, to renew something of the old happy familiarity of their childhood. Comethup suffered all the tortures and all the ecstasies of a boy in his condition; was set walking upon air by a word from her, or a pressure of her fingers; or was plunged into the depths of misery by a rebuff, however slight or meaningless. But, being young and wonderfully healthy, he slept well and did not lose his appetite; and the matter, serious as he thought it, had no great effect upon him.

The day came when he was to start for London to join his aunt. He had decided to drive to Deal, as she had done, and there take a train for London; the fly was to come for him and his belongings immediately after breakfast. ’Linda breakfasted with them that morning, and seemed, Comethup thought miserably, brighter and happier than usual. For himself, he wondered what heshould say to her, or what she would have to say to him, when the moment for parting came.

When the fly drew up at the door, he shook hands with the captain and then turned toward the girl. With downcast eyes she offered him her cheek and gave him her hand; but the captain cried: “Lips, you rogue; the boy’s not kissing his grandmother!”

Blushingly she turned her face, and their lips met; and Comethup stumbled somehow out of the house. As he was getting into the fly she ran out of the garden and came close to him.

“Comethup!” she whispered.

He turned, and leaned toward her. “Yes, ’Linda; what is it?”

“You’re going to London; you may meet—may see Brian; oh, please carry my—my good wishes to him, and say I want to know what he is doing and if he is prospering. You will, won’t you, Comethup?”

He looked at her eager face and nodded slowly and solemnly. “Yes,” he said, “I’ll tell him. We shall be sure to meet, you know; I’ll certainly tell him. Good-bye!”

She smiled gratefully, and kissed her hand to him. He carried the remembrance of those last words of hers on the journey to London, and turned them over and over as he went.

COMETHUP PRACTISES DECEPTION.

Miss Charlotte Carlaw was awaiting the arrival of her nephew in the drawing room. “I’d have driven down, my dear boy, but I find I don’t get any lighter as time goes on, and I thought you could possess your soul in patience until you saw me. Come here, giant. Lord! what a long time it seems since you first came into thishouse, a scrap of humanity I had to stoop to! And now you’re so big as to make me feel uncomfortable; and your voice is deeper, and you’ve finished your school days. There, come and kiss a foolish old woman; I’m devilish proud of you, and I hear nothing but good reports of you. I’ve never said so before, but I say it now; it was the best day’s work I ever did when I found you and brought you to London.”

“A good day for me, aunt,” said Comethup, gratefully.

“That’s as it may be. I knew you’d got the right stuff in you, although if it hadn’t been for the captain I should probably have ruined you. And how is the captain?”

Comethup assured her that the captain was well, and wished to be held in remembrance by the best woman in the world.

“So that’s what he says of me, is it?” said Miss Charlotte Carlaw, laughing, and rocking herself over the head of her stick “You might have told him I was the happiest woman, if that’s got anything to do with it. Well, did you meet any one else down in Sleepy Hollow?”

“Yes,” said Comethup slowly, as if labouring under deep thought, “I met my old playfellow, ’Linda.”

“Oho! And what’s our old playfellow like by this time? Grown old and ugly—eh?”

“Oh, no,” replied Comethup, with a short laugh. “I think—the captain thinks—she’s rather pretty.”

“Oh, the captain thinks so, does he? And what does Prince Charming think? There, you needn’t be afraid to tell me anything; you wouldn’t be a boy, and you wouldn’t be your mother’s son, if you didn’t fall over head and ears in love with some one. And I suppose you’ve said all sorts of pretty things to each other, and she’s given you a ribbon or a flower, or something or other, and you——”

“No, indeed,” said Comethup. “She hasn’t given me anything.”

“Then you’re both of you devilish backward for your ages, that’s all I can say. Did you kiss her?”

“Y—yes,” said Comethup slowly.

“Ah, that’s better. Well, I won’t ask any more questions; I suppose it isn’t fair. Now sit down and tell me all about the end of your school days—all you haven’t told in your letters—beautiful letters they were, too, Prince Charming, and I had only one grievance about them: that some one else should have to read them to me. However, that can’t be helped. Now tell me what they said to you when you left, and whether they were sorry, and whether they cheered you, or if there were any speeches. Oh, I had a mind to come down and walk with my dear boy among the people who looked up to him and loved him; I’ve been mighty jealous of you, and mighty proud. Eight years ago, or more, I struck a bargain with you, and you’ve held to it more faithfully than many a man could have done. I wasn’t mistaken in you, Comethup, and some day perhaps you’ll know how you’ve changed my life and what you’ve really done for me. Now tell me everything. Lunch will be ready directly.”

Comethup entered into a long recital of his doings, sharply questioned at intervals by Miss Carlaw as to the number of runs he had made here and the number of wickets he had taken there; she appeared to know all the technicalities of everything that had concerned him by heart. The recital lasted well into the middle of lunch, and she heard it through to the bitter end with complete and smiling satisfaction. Then, after sitting silent for some minutes, she turned abruptly to him, and felt for his hand upon the table and covered it with her own.

“Now, my dear boy,” she said, “you’ve been away from me, for the most part, for eight years. I am a lonely old woman and one who has but one love in her life, and that’s you. I’ve missed you and longed for you dreadfully; but I knew it was all for the best, and you were growing to be a brave and clever lad, and so I put up with it. Now, it’s no good blinking facts; I’m getting old, and, at the best, I haven’t got so many years of lifebefore me. I’ve thought of all sorts of things for you—professions into which I might put you; I’ve thought of sending you to one of the universities. But these years have taught me a lesson. I can’t spare you. After all, there are plenty of poor devils in this world who have got to earn their living, and I don’t see why you, who have plenty, should stand in the way of any one of them. I know you’d beat ’em hollow, whatever you took up, if you once started; but I’m not going to let you try. As I’ve said, I’m a lonely old woman, and I’m devilish tired of my own company. If you can put up with me, and are not ashamed of me—no, no, boy, I ought not to have said that; forgive me—I think we might manage, for a year or two, to run about the world together and have a good time. I’ve never travelled yet, for travel simply means inconvenience; but you shall be my eyes, and we’ll educate you in our own fashion. You shall see all that this good old earth has to show you, and you shall tell me all about it and give me your own impressions; and I shall be happy, and we’ll both be happy. I don’t want to make a vagabond of you; but there’s a good idleness as well as a bad idleness, and we’ll see if we can’t find the first. What do you think of it?”

“I think it would be splendid,” said Comethup. “There are lots of places I’ve heard of that I should like to see, and if you think——”

“I don’t think about it; I’ve made up my mind. There are people who’ll say that a blind old creature, such as I am, ought not to hang like a millstone round a boy’s neck; but I think we shall manage to rub along together—eh, Comethup? At the same time”—she held up a warning forefinger—“if you feel any doubts about the matter, or have any other purpose in your mind, out with it. Let’s have plain sailing to begin with, and we sha’n’t make blunders afterward. I don’t want you to be reckless; but you shall have plenty of money, and we can afford to travel in the best style and to go to the best places. I shall trust to you so completely that I intend to put the management of everything in your hands; youshall draw upon me for what you want, and I sha’n’t ask you questions. Now what’s it to be, Yes or No?”

“Yes, with all my heart,” replied Comethup.

“That’s good; we’ll call it settled. I purpose starting almost immediately, and we shall probably be away for three or four years; but that will depend upon how things turn out. Now let’s talk about something else. Did you meet any one else when you were staying with the captain?”

“Yes, we met Uncle Bob one day.”

“What! Robert Carlaw? What didhewant?”

“I don’t think he wanted anything,” replied Comethup. “He came to a picnic with us—we didn’t invite him, but he came—and was very nice.”

“No, Bob wouldn’t want any inviting. It’s my honest belief that that man will manage to get into heaven one day by sheer bounce; I don’t see how they’re to keep him out. So he was very nice, was he?”

“Yes, very. He suggested he might be coming to London.”

Miss Carlaw nodded her head a great many times. “Oh, I dare say. Well, I’m not going to coerce you, or to control your actions in any way, but I wish you to have nothing to do with that man, or with his son. It may be prejudice, and I dare say it’s very wrong; but I don’t like him, and I never shall, and they won’t do you any good. What’s the boy doing?”

“I believe he’s in London,” said Comethup. “I know he came to London to make his fortune.”

“Make his fiddlesticks! That boy’ll never make his fortune unless he makes it out of somebody else. I don’t want to be uncharitable, Comethup, but he’s like his father, and his father shuffles. If you take my advice you’ll have nothing to do with either of them. I dare say people would accuse me of injustice, and would say that I ought to have put that boy in the place you occupy. But, in the first place, he’s had a father to look after him, and you hadn’t; and, in the second place, I’m devilish glad I wasn’t such a fool. No, Comethup, I’m quite satisfiedwith my bargain, and you and I will make the best of life together and have a good time. I look upon you as a man now, although you’re young, and shall expect you to behave as a man. Now, I suppose you’ve spent all your money—there, I don’t want to hear details—and want some more? You’ve left your school days behind now, and I suppose we must treat you differently. Come with me, and we’ll see if we can find a cheque for you.”

He conducted his aunt to a little room where she wrote her letters and transacted her business generally. He had often seen her write, and had been astonished at the ease and accuracy with which she did it—writing on a curious board, with slips of metal, having notches in them, stretched across it; with the aid of this she carried on quite a large correspondence in a clear, neat hand. So used had she become to it that she quite easily fitted in a cheque, seeming to take rapid measurements on it with her fingers, filled it up, signed it, and handed it to him.

“There,” she said, “that’s for fifty pounds. As I’ve told you, I don’t want you to be reckless, but you can have more when you want it. You know where the bank is, and you can drive there whenever you like and cash it. There’s only one thing I want you clearly to understand: I want you to be a man and to learn your way about; and I want you to keep a clear and open face to the world and to me. Do that always, and we sha’n’t quarrel.”

He commenced a halting form of thanks, but she checked him and waved him away, explaining that she had business to attend to, and smilingly adding that she couldn’t be bothered with him. But the business proved to be of short duration. The proud old woman soon came bustling up to the boy’s sitting room in search of him, and suggested a drive. The carriage was ordered, and they selected as their route, at Miss Carlaw’s command, the most public and fashionable ways.

“We shall be away from London for a long time,” said Miss Carlaw soon after they had started, “and London won’t have a chance of seeing my boy. So we’ll give ’ema chance now; we’ll let ’em see that the Prince Charming they knew has grown a man indeed. Do they look at you? Do they stare? Lord! it’s at this time I want my eyes most; I never felt the want of ’em until you came. But I mustn’t grumble; I shall have a judgment on me if I grumble after all my blessings.”

Jealousy and envy racked her foolish old heart as much as they had ever done. Amid all her joy at his return, she fell very often into a despondent mood; strove, in a strange, pitiful fashion that was almost grotesque, to make herself pleasing to the boy; was anxious to be seen about with him, and yet fearful lest she should weary him, or he should long for some other companion. The joy that his presence meant to her was sometimes more than swallowed up by her jealous fears concerning him. Had she but known, no such fear need ever have troubled her life, for Comethup had a genuine and deep affection for her, born of his gratitude for her many generosities, and, in greater measure, of his respect for her strength and force of character. But it was, of course, impossible for him adequately to express that, and so her fears never really left her.

With that promptitude which marked all her actions when her mind was once firmly made up, Miss Carlaw arranged to close her house and to depart for the Continent in less than a week. It was a busy week, for clothing had to be bought, and arrangements made as to their route, and many other things settled to which only Miss Carlaw could attend. Comethup went about with his aunt a great deal, but was often left to his own devices; and on one of those occasions he made up his mind that he would go down to the bank and cash the cheque which his aunt had given him. The matter had completely slipped his memory before, for there was little need for him to spend money, and he still had some in his pockets. He had been with his aunt to the bank once or twice in earlier years, and remembered well where it was situated. At the sudden recollection of the large amount of money he was soon to have in actual cash in his pocket,he hailed a hansom, immediately after leaving his aunt’s house, and prepared to drive down in state. It seemed much better fun to the boy’s mind to be able to take a cab, and pay for it, than to order the carriage, as he could have done at any time.

His foot was on the step of the vehicle when a hand was clapped on his shoulder, and he heard a familiar voice ejaculating his name. He turned quickly, and saw the smiling face of Brian Carlaw. He could not help noticing, even in that first brief glance, that Brian had changed in some indefinable fashion, although it was comparatively but a few days since they had met outside the school. London seemed to have put its stamp upon the handsome, reckless face, and in the bold eyes, and not to their improvement. Brian’s dress had always been careless, but now there was a sheer untidiness about it that seemed to belong to the change of face.

“Well, this is lucky,” exclaimed Brian, gripping his cousin’s hand. “I was just strolling up toward your place. I don’t think I’d have ventured to go in, after my recollections of our worthy aunt, but I thought I might get a glimpse of you. And so we flaunt it in hansoms, do we?” He laughed good-humouredly, and slipped his arm affectionately through Comethup’s. “In with you. I’ve nothing to claim me at the moment; I’ll go wherever you’re going, and you can drop me when I’m likely to be in the way. By Jove! you’re a lucky youngster; and yet I don’t think I’d change places with you. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to the bank,” said Comethup, hastily, standing up to give the direction to the driver. As he settled into his place beside Brian he added: “I’m awfully glad to see you; I’ve been thinking a great deal about you, and wondering what you were doing.”

“Boy, I’m living—that’s what I’m doing. To-day, perhaps with a few shillings in my pocket; to-morrow with nothing. No gilded luxury for me; I’ve taken Fate by the throat, and I’m going to choke something out of her. I’m only a boy—not nineteen yet—a boy, at least,in years; but I’ve read there have been glorious boys who started as I have done and took the world by storm. Oh, don’t think I’m boasting, don’t think I’m mad. The days in Sleepy Hollow are done with; I stayed there too long as it was. In London here—well, a man may starve, or walk with broken boots, but everything about him lives—lives, I say; every face of man or woman bears the stamp of a history; every sound, even if it be the sound of an oath, has life in it. I tell you, it’s glorious; one has only to gird up one’s loins, as it were, and join in the race, and the excitement keeps you going; it must.”

“But what are you doing?” asked Comethup.

“Doing? Everything that’s worth doing. Working, seeing people, dreaming. You’ve heard of Chatterton? He, poor devil, came from Bristol to this wonderful city when he was about as young as I am; he poisoned himself in a garret. I promise you I won’t do that; life’s too strong in me; and if it comes, as it will, to a rough and tumble with the world, the world goes down. But I’m working as he worked—writing. You’ll all be proud of me some day. I’ve met men already in these few days who have begun to encourage me and tell me what I can do and how to do it. I’ve been stringing rhymes for years—ever since I was a boy; now I’m stringing rhymes in good earnest. I’ve had introductions here, introductions there; this one has promised to take me up, that one to see that I’m not forgotten. There’s a trick in this as there is in everything else—the trick of making people believe in you, making people like you. You’ve got to show yourself a very fine fellow, and to declare that youarea very fine fellow; if you’re loud enough about it, people will believe you. Here’s your bank, you millionaire. Shall I wait for you, or come in?”

“Oh, come in, if you like,” said Comethup.

Brian Carlaw was close at his elbow when he presented the cheque; even laughed easily when Comethup hesitated a moment as to how he should take the money. “Take it how you will, so that you get it,” he suggested. And when the boy had folded the notes and thrust theminto his pocket, his cousin linked arms with him again and drew him out of the bank.

“Where are you going?” asked Comethup, as they reached the pavement.

“Going?” said Brian laughingly. “Well, I’m going to keep you in sight, youngster; you have no right to be wandering at large in this dreadful city with all that money in your pockets. Frankly, I’m going to have lunch with you. My breakfast this morning was a small affair, and I was casting about in my mind as to how to obtain a lunch when I met you. Genius always has to do that kind of thing, you know; it’s one of its penalties. You shall give me the best lunch in town.”

Comethup could not well refuse; but he was torn between the thought of this reckless, penniless, hungry cousin of his, and the remembrance of a certain blind old woman, to whom he owed everything, sitting in her solitary dining room and lunching alone and anxiously awaiting his return. However, before he had time to think about the matter with any clearness Brian had thrust him into the waiting cab and had instructed the driver in a loud voice to drive them somewhere where they could lunch. “The best place in London,” he added, “and look sharp.”

“So this is the way she treats you,” said Brian, looking round at the boy with a smile. “Fifty pounds at one fell swoop! Why, ye gods! it’d keep me for a year. Not that I envy you—envy isn’t in my nature—only it’s a queer, topsy-turvy world when one man, who doesn’t mean to do anything in particular, has more than he wants, and another, who wants to set the world ringing, can scarcely get a crust. There, that’s sheer green envy, isn’t it? But whatareyou going to do? Or have you made up your mind to live at ease and do nothing?”

“Well, in a couple of days I’m going abroad with my aunt—for three years, I believe. We’re going to travel about.”

Brian Carlaw’s face grew grave, and, without making any reply, he sat for some time almost in moody silence.Poor Comethup began to feel guilty; drew a mental picture, as he was in the habit of doing, of himself travelling in state and luxury through all the fair places of the earth, while this clever cousin, who was bound to become a great man and who craved only fifty pounds for a whole year, struggled along, in hungry fashion, alone in London. He counted himself the usurper; wondered, in all modesty, what his aunt could have found in him to like so much better than this brilliant youth, who would surely some day shed glory on her name. In a cumbrous, boyish, ineffectual way, he strove to think how he might help this cousin, who was himself so helpless.

The cabman knew his London, and drove them to a place noted for its cookery and its cellar. Brian quite naturally led the way, and they found a table in a corner and seated themselves. “Perhaps you’d better leave the ordering of things to me,” he said to Comethup; and the boy willingly did so.

At the finish of the meal, when Brian had lighted a cigarette, he leaned across the table to Comethup and spoke confidentially. The eyes that Comethup thought were always so beautiful looked with the friendliest, frankest expression into those of the boy, and his voice had in it that soft ring of tenderness which made it almost like the voice—except that it was deeper and stronger—of a woman.

“Dear old chap,” he began, “I talked like a blackguard to you just now; you’re a dear, fine fellow, and I had no right—no earthly right—to envy you your good luck. We’ve always been good friends ever since we were little fellows, and we sha’n’t be the worse friends because one is rich and the other poor. You and I don’t count friendship in that way, do we?”

For answer Comethup, unwilling to trust his voice, stretched his hand across the table; it was immediately gripped by the hand of the other.

“I knew what your answer would be,” said Brian. “I don’t want you to think—oh, I don’t know quite how to express it—but I don’t want you to think that I’m afraidof the future; I’ll make as good a fight of it as any one, perhaps better. Only there’s an element in me that isn’t quite—well, not quite a manly one—something of the feminine, I mean; it makes me long for sympathy and a friend’s face and what-not. And that was why, although you’re only a boy, I was somehow rather looking forward to your being in London; we might have seen something of each other occasionally; at all events, it would have been good to know that you were near at hand. However, you’ve got your own life to live, and you’re going to have a good time—and so am I, for the matter of that.” He threw back his head, crossed his hands behind it, and laughed softly. “It’s only this cursed want of money——There, I’m behaving like a blackguard again, so we’ll change the subject. Let’s talk—oh, of anything else.”

The flimsy banknotes in Comethup’s pocket seemed to weigh heavier than lead; he thought miserably of all the luxury with which he was surrounded, of the bowing servants, the costly furniture, the carriages, everything that was his for the raising of a finger. And it seemed harder than ever that Brian—so gentle, so cheerful, so willing to take the rough with the smooth—should have presently to go out into the world and fight desperately for actual food. He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out the bundle of notes, and spoke in a choking voice, “Brian—I—I say—Brian——”

Brian, who had been gazing meditatively at the ceiling, looked across at him, suddenly leaned forward, with his elbows on the table and his chin on his palms, and spoke in a surprised tone. “Why, Comethup, what’s the matter, boy?”

“Look here, Brian”—he sunk his voice to a whisper and looked round apprehensively—“I can’t take—take all this money, and know that you—that you haven’t a penny, or scarcely a penny, in the world. You see, Brian, anything might happen to you. Why, you might actually starve! It would be horrible. You know I have a great deal more—lots more than I can possibly want. No onewould know anything about it, I promise you. Won’t you take them?” He thrust the notes across the table and pushed them against Brian’s sleeve.

Brian changed the position of his head, lowering it so that his face was hidden by his hands. Comethup saw emotion in the attitude, and pressed the notes harder upon him. If he could have seen behind the hand, he would have known that Brian’s dark eyes had suddenly lighted up with satisfaction, and that his mouth was working suspiciously, almost as though he were trying to repress a smile. When, however, after a moment or two he took his hand from his face and looked across at the boy, his expression was grave enough, and his mouth was firm with determination. He shook his head solemnly.

“No, old chap, it’s impossible. Remember, I owe you money already. But for you, I should have starved days ago. No, I’ve got to make a fight for it, and I shall manage to fall on my feet. I know you can afford it, and I’m awfully grateful, but it isn’t fair, and I’m not going to do it.” He pushed the notes back again across the table.

“But, Brian,” urged Comethup, “just think for a moment. I shall be away three years at the least, and I shall have plenty of money—oh, I’m not boasting about it, but you know I shall have plenty—and I can’t bear to think that you may be in straits while I’m having a good time. You say this’ll keep you for a year; by that time you will probably be doing big things. If you don’t like to take it, let it be a loan; if you want to pay me back, you can—when you’re rich and famous.”

That point was apparently one which had escaped Brian. He pondered for a moment, half started forward, and drew back again, and finally stretched out his hand with a smile. “You’re the finest fellow in the world, Comethup,” he cried, “and, by Jove! I’ll dedicate my first book to you. You’re the only friend I’ve really got. Yes, I’ll take the money—or stay, you’d better keep a fiver of it to pay for the lunch and to keep you swimmingtill you get another cheque. You don’t know how happy you’ve made me, old boy.” He was busily engaged with the notes, detaching one for five pounds and tossing it across to Comethup, while he pocketed the others in businesslike fashion. “I shall go home singing like a lark. By Jove! I’ll be able to work now. The fear of getting up each morning without the prospect of a meal before you doesn’t sharpen your wits, in spite of what people may say. Look here, I’ll give you my address. You must write to me, dear old chap; and I’ll write to you and let you know all that I’m doing. Besides, I may want to send you this money back; it won’t be long before I repay it, I promise you. Keep me informed of your movements when you change from one place to another, and I’ll write to you regularly.”

Comethup paid the bill, and they went out together. He had quite forgotten about the cab, and it was still waiting; Brian thrust him in, and stood on the pavement to say good-bye.

“I won’t try and thank you, old boy,” he said, “because such a thing as this is too great for thanks. If ever you’re desperately hard up, you’ll know what I feel like at this moment. You’ve got my address; don’t forget to write to me. Good-bye!”

They gripped hands, and Brian walked rapidly away, with that curious half-swagger which was so like his father’s step. Comethup drove home, beginning to wonder a little as to how he should account to his aunt for the disappearance of the money in the event of her questioning him.

He remembered how fixed was her dislike to Brian, and that, although, as she had said, she had no wish to control his actions in regard to his cousin, she would probably not be pleased to know that he had regarded even her suggestion so lightly. Somewhat quakingly, therefore, he sought her presence on his return to the house.

“Well, you rascal,” she said, smiling, as she heard hisstep in the room, “I suppose you have been running about town, throwing your money about, eh?”

The shaft struck home, although she had only spoken in jest, and Comethup winced. “Well, not exactly throwing it about, aunt,” he began; but she checked him.

“There, there, I don’t want to know anything about it. I gave you the money to spend, and I expect you to do as you like with it. I don’t want you to indulge in wanton waste—that would be absurd; and I don’t think you’re likely to do it. But you needn’t stint yourself. And let me know when you want any more. By the way, as to-morrow is our last real day in town, and there’ll be a good many things to attend to, I think we’ll go to the theatre to-night—something bright, with music in it. Would you like to do so?”

“Very much, aunt,” he replied.

“Very well, then; you’d better go and see if you can get a box—a box is always more comfortable. Now I want you to learn to please yourself, and to choose for yourself, and then you’ll please me. Just look down this morning’s paper and see what piece you think we should both like, and then take a hansom—I heard you drive up in one just now; I’m glad to see you’re finding your way about—take a hansom, and drive off to the theatre and get a box for to-night. If you can’t get it at one place, get it at another; you’ve got money enough. Get a big box, near the stage.”

Comethup tremblingly began to fumble in his pockets. He had no very distinct idea of what a box would cost, but he knew it was an expensive matter, and the gold coins in his pocket were remarkably few. He coughed and hesitated, and Miss Carlaw began to show signs of impatience.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Don’t you want to go? For Heaven’s sake, boy, don’t stand there in that fashion! Comethup, is anything the matter?” Her voice had changed in a moment, and she came rapidly across the room to him. “Comethup, something has happened. What is it?”

“If you please, aunt—I—I’m dreadfully sorry, but how much does a box cost?”

“What the devil’s that got to do with it? Anything from two and a half to three guineas, if it’s a good one. Whatisthe matter with you?”

“Well,” said Comethup, slowly, “I’m afraid I haven’t got money enough.”

She stood quite still for a moment, as if not fully understanding what he said. “Not money enough?” she echoed at last. “But, my dear boy, haven’t you cashed the cheque I gave you—the fifty pounds, you know?”

“Yes, aunt, I cashed it. But—I’m dreadfully sorry—there isn’t much of it left—not enough for that.”

Miss Charlotte Carlaw whistled softly, and looked grave. “My dear boy,” she said, “I told you you might spend that money just as you liked, and I’m not going back on my word. But you’re a youngster at this game, evidently, and perhaps I was foolish to give you such a sum all at once. Fifty pounds is a good deal of money, and, although I’m very rich, you mustn’t let it slip quite so quickly as that, Prince Charming. I don’t want you to tell me anything unless you wish, but, in God’s name, boy, what have you done with it? What have you spent it on? I told you to do as you liked with it, but for the life of me I can’t think what you’ve done with that money in a matter of two days unless you’ve lost it. Have you lost it, Comethup?”

“No,” said Comethup, slowly, “I haven’t lost it. I know it seems—seems awfully strange, especially as I only cashed it to-day; I really didn’t want it then.”

“There’s some mystery here,” said Miss Carlaw, “and I think I ought, for your sake, to get at the bottom of it. Devil take the money! I don’t care a pin about it. But what have you done with it? Come, you don’t mind telling me?”

“No,” said Comethup. He had made up his mind that some explanation must be given. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I gave it away, or lent it.”

“Well, go on,” replied Miss Carlaw.

“I gave it—lent it, I mean—to—to an old friend. He was hard up, and he really didn’t want to take it. But he said it would keep him for a year——”

“Poor devil!” ejaculated Miss Carlaw under her breath.

“And I wanted to help him, so I made him take it. I didn’t want to tell you; you know I never have anything to spend money on, and I thought I should be able to get along with what I had for a long time.”

Miss Carlaw turned away abruptly and pulled out her purse. Twisting round toward him again, she held it out, even shook it at him. “Here, take this. Oh, my dear boy, I’m an old fool, and you’re probably a young one; but, upon my word, I think you’re making me love you more every day. It was a lot of money to give any one, but you’re quite right, and I hope I should have done the same myself. Here, take this, and go and see about the box. There’s money enough there.”

“No, I’d rather not take any more money, aunt, thank you; not yet, at least. I don’t want it, and I can just as well wait a bit.”

“Will you take it? Don’t talk nonsense.”

“No, thank you, I’d rather not,” said Comethup.

She laughed, very well pleased, and came nearer to him. “Here, take it,” she urged gently, “and pay for the box and your cab, at least. Lord! I love your obstinacy.”

Comethup took the purse and kissed her, feeling very guilty, and went out to do her bidding.

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