no concealment now: I am grieved to say that your story is in the public papers."

She looked aghast, and for a time held her brow tightly pressed.

"I had better have died, Mr. Beckenham," she said, excitedly," better have died than bear a tarnished name! Stop the cab-take me no further: put me out into the streets, and let me wander till I die."

"Compose yourself," he said, soothingly; "I am taking you to your friends."

"Have I any?" she asked wildly. My mother and Clo' where are they? Let me see them while I shall be able to recognize them, for I feel almost mad."

" I

Beckenham pulled the check-string-the cab stopped. "Where do you wish to go?" he asked, mildly; will act precisely as you desire: where must he drive to? "I don't know. My brain-my memory-I seem to forget. What were you saying?"

Her cheeks were now crimson, and her eyes shone with a wild, morbid lustre.

Beckenham touched her hands: they were hot as burning coals. Without further consideration he whispered the driver to proceed to Bedford Square, to the residence of Mr. Trenmore.

It was

'Rina's condition gradually became worse. evident that excitement and deep mental anguish were performing their work upon her brain; for before reaching Mr. Trenmore's house, she had grown quite delirious, and almost unmanageable. This was what Beckenham had expected-what he had feared. How should he act? Would she obtain a shelter until her friends could be informed of her condition?

The cab stopped at the house of Mr. Trenmore.

Well, Nelly," said Mr. Trenmore, as his wife entered the room in which he and Beckenham were sitting; "how is your patient? what says the doctor? and what would you advise Beckenham to do?"

"One question at a time, Gatty," said she: "the duchess

is better that is to say, the wild paroxysm is over, and she is quiet; but she is so fearfully excitable that the doctor expects a return of the delirium, the effects of which, on one so delicate and so peculiar in temperament, he anticipates with a positive dread."

"I will at once proceed to Park Lane," said Beckenham ; "it is requisite that her friends should be seen without delay." Quite requisite," returned Mrs. Trenmore.

Beckenham, who lost no time in hastening to Park Lane, was sorely disappointed at finding Sir John's house closed. The people in charge of the dwelling said that Sir John and Mr. and Mrs. Hollingsworth were travelling somewhere abroad.

"Did she know where Mrs. Hollingsworth's parents resided?" Beckenham asked.

Certainly,"-and the woman instantly gave him their

address.

Into a London suburb, in which scores of new houses are springing up daily, I must now lead the reader. The street is wrapped in Sabbath-like repose, the surrounding dwellings with their stuccoed fronts, and plate-glass windows draped with white lace, greet the eye pleasantly; and you are inclined to exclaim with the poet-"In this corner of the world will I pitch my tent; for here abideth peace and happiness." The very door-steps of each dwelling look demurely and deprecatingly, as if dreading a footfall; indeed, you are almost impressed with a notion that such steps are not intended to be used, except on high-days and holidays. Never mind: we will venture to ascend these before us. 'Tis done; and we now raise the knocker, which is stiff and heavy in our grasp. Rat-a-tat! Courage! we have passed over the door-mat into the hall. Pah! what a smell of paint and new oil-cloth! How everything shines! We are in the dining-room: it is a square apartment, on the walls of which you observe a paper of monstrous red and yellow pattern dances, dazzling and distressing our eyesight. Yes, everything around us is new-spic-span new! There is a

polish, an indescribable brightness and glitter appertaining alone to new articles-all of which we have here. Even the coals seem to burn with a fresh and cheerful vigour, as if proud of being consumed within such a perfect modern stove.

The table is laid for dinner, and the servant-maid (whose appearance is in perfect harmony with her surroundings) is removing the covers.

There are two persons sitting at the table with whom we are well acquainted: we will watch and listen to them.

66

Mutton, again!" exclaimed Julius: "can't I have pork? and can't I dine at seven, as I have repeatedly desired, and not at this vulgar, unheard-of hour."

"It is half-past four," Emma timidly rejoined.

"Well, I know it is-I want no information on that point, when a clock stares me in the face."

"Forgot! What do you remember, I should like to know? Humph! I've told you over and over again I hate mutton!" "I will recollect for the future," replied Emma, meekly "You may go, Ann," continued she, addressing the servant; we don't require you."

66

"She may not go, for I require her!"

Emma made no answer, and the servant remained to wait during dinner.

"You don't eat," observed Julius, after a pause: you live on air."

66 I think

"I have no appetite. I am filled with a vague dread of some coming evil."

"Do you want to spoil my dinner? You are always troubled with disagreeable presentiments about one thing or other I'm sure it would make matters a great deal better if you indulged in pleasant anticipations. Here, have a glass of Bordeaux-it will do you good; it's of the vintage of 1834, and I'm told-cost a nice penny ! But I can readily believe what they say, for it's sour enough to be of any vintage. It's fashionable to have that sort of wine on one's table; and, as my son-in-law the duke observed-(Emma put down her knife and fork, and leant back in her chair)" to our old friend Sir John-Confound this macaroni

-it's abominably cooked! I wish the Hollingsworths were back from Italy; I shall write and request them to bring over some recipe for cooking macaroni, for our English cuisine is, as my son-in-law the duke very justly observed, poor-wretchedly poor."

Julius went on chattering first on one silly subject, then on another, every minute contriving to drag in the mention of "my son-in-law the duke," and 66 my daughter the duchess;" for, even before his servants, he liked to talk largely, and to appear important and grand.

The duke, on his marriage with 'Rina, had settled on her. parents an annuity of six hundred pounds, on the express condition that they entirely withdrew themselves from the profession. Thus it is we find Julius living in what he termed "a genteel style, and independent of the public."

Now, astonishing to relate, the duke's father-in-law has neither been invited to dine at the palace, nor anywhere else that he expected. The Sovereign has been lax in her courtesy, Julius says; and he begins to entertain a very mean opinion of royalty, and hints that the country would be much better off if it hadn't such an unapproachable, stuckup court. Julius is disappointed in many ways; for he imagined that the world was made for him-and for him alone.

Emma's separation from 'Rina, an event she had never dreamed of, was her great grief. Sir John had assured her that the duke would be certain to relent by-and-by, and all would be well, if she would not fret. If she might only be permitted to write to 'Rina, and hear of her precious health, Emma would be happy; but of late her letters had been returned to her, and the duke had written, forbidding further correspondence between the mother and daughter.

Julius had blustered a vast deal at hearing the above information, which reached him a few days previous to Clotilda's marriage, and had immediately called upon his grace, in order to demand from him an explanation and an apology. Julius returned home crest-fallen: his son-in-law the duke had insulted him. One by one the stones came tumbling down; and Julius's castles lay a heap of ruins. Drives in the duke's carriage-dinners at the duke's table, at which

he expected to meet the whole of the aristocracy of Great Britain-all had vanished. However, he durst not complain: six hundred pounds a-year stopped his mouth; therefore, with a tolerable grace, he bore the defeat of his long-cherished hopes.

Sir John Craggsbridge sent Emma's boys to school, and rendered many other favours; all of which she accepted with a grateful heart.

Sir John, who saw what Julius would not see, felt that Emma had inherited her mother's disease, consumption, and that she was fast fading away. He stocked her cellar with port wine and claret, he stored her closets with expensive dainties, he watched her looks with anxious tenderness, and strove to banish from her heart every care.

But, how all these kind acts were performed Emma knew not he used such tact and delicacy that his generosity was ever felt but never seen.

Geoffrey and his bride carried the baronet to Italy; and Emma for a while lost her sympathizing companion and friend.

Dinner was just over, when there came a violent ringing at the visitors' bell.

"Holloa! who's that, I wonder?" said Julius, who was busily engaged in dissecting the contents of a walnut-shell, and in sipping his wine. "Whatever are you turning so pale about, eh, Emma? It isn't a dun."

"I tremble," faltered she,-" I feel quite faint.”

"Take some wine, then there's nothing like wine to warm the heart!" and Julius tossed off a bumper of port. Emma looked up uneasily at her husband of late he had taken deep draughts of the wine-cup.

"A gentleman on business of the utmost importance !" said the servant, giving Julius a card.

"Mr. George Beckenham," read the master of the house. “Mr. Beckenham, from Manchester!" exclaimed Emma, in a pleased tone.

"What can he want with us?" asked Julius, impatiently proceeding to the drawing-room, into which the visitor had been shown.

I am glad to see you, Beckenham, my boy!" said Julius, boisterously greeting the old man. "How did you find me