'I say, Mab, there's such a delightful monkey outside, do lend me sixpence?'

Mrs Seaton looks up from a telegram she is reading and says to Philippa, 'Never mind the monkey, I've just had this from George and—'

'Is he ill?' inquires Lippa.

'No, but—'

'Do give me the sixpence then, I will be back in a moment again.'

Mabel produces the coin, and Philippa having delivered it hurries back. 'He was so pleased,' she says, 'the dear little—' but her sister-in-law's face causes her to stop and inquire hastily, 'What has happened, do tell me?' her thoughts recurring at once to Jimmy Dalrymple.

'Well, dear,' says Mabel, 'George has telegraphed to me the death of—'

'Who?' asks Philippa, clutching at a chair near her.

'No one you ever knew,' replies Mabel, guessing the question that she would ask.

'Ah!' and Lippa breathes a sigh of relief, 'is it a friend of George's or Paul's?' 'wife' she is going to say but hesitates.

'No,' replies Mabel, 'it is someone who has been in an asylum for many years,' she pauses wondering how to go on when Philippa spares her the trouble by saying,

'My mother?'

'How did you guess?' says Mabel, surprised.

Lippa heeds her not. 'Somebody I never knew,' she murmurs to herself, 'somebody I never knew, and yet my mother; how strange. Tell me about her,' she adds, 'when, did she go—mad?'

'I thought you knew nothing about it,' says Mabel, 'your mother had a shock when you were two years old, which affected her brain, and of course at the time you were too young to understand and it was thought best not to tell you anything, even when you were older; but dearest, who told you of this, George and I were under the impression you knew nothing about it?'

'I overheard you talking about my mother to Lady Dadford. I know it was wrong, Mab, but I could not help it, and I thought that perhaps it would be just as well not to let you know. Was it wrong?'

Mrs Seaton finds it hard to reprove the owner of the face that is lifted to hers, with such a wistful look in the blue eyes. 'I think you ought to have told me,' she says gravely, 'it would have made no difference to anyone, but still it does not matter now; and we shall hear all particulars from George to-morrow; he says he is writing.'

There is a pause. Lippa is gazing out of the window, but her thoughts are very busy. Presently she says, 'Madness generally descends from father to son, doesn't it?'

Mabel, thinking she is alluding to George, says hastily, 'There is no necessity whatever—'

'Ah!' and Lippa clasps her hands together and looks eagerly at Mabel, 'then, then, ... there's no great likelihood of my going mad.'

Mabel looks at her. Is this then what she has been worrying about. 'There is no necessity whatever, the doctors said, insanity is not in your family at all; it was a shock your mother had when she was not very strong, so dear, please do not fancy foolish things like that.'

Lippa smiles. Oh! the joy of feeling that there is no impediment between her and Jimmy; it need never have been then, this time of separation, and yet probably it has been very wholesome for them both. But how to convey to him that she is ready, aye, and more than willing, to link her fate with his; there is nothing for it but to wait and see.

And time goes on, as it always does. Autumn passes away, and winter comes with its frost, snow and fogs, while Lippa waits for the day when Jimmy will know all, but just now her time is fully occupied, for the housekeeping has fallen upon her shoulders, as Mabel is up to nothing but hugging a little bundle with a red face, which made its appearance one day.

'Ain't you sorry she's a girl?' Teddy is saying as he is chaperoning his aunt to church on Christmas day, 'because, you know, she's sure not to like games.'

'It will be some time before she can play games,' replies Lippa, laughing; 'but you will have to be very good to her. What do you want her to be called?'

'Lots of names,' says Teddy. 'But look, Auntie; do look, there's Mr Dalrymple. Do you think he's going to our church?'

'I don't know at all,' she replies, trying to look unconcerned. 'We shall be there in a moment, come along; it is rude to stare at people.'

She hurries her nephew up the aisle and into their pew, for fear of coming face to face with Jimmy; she remains a few moments on her knees, and so does not interfere with Teddy, who having hurried through his own private devotions, turns round and watches the stream of people passing in through the door. He suddenly nods and beckons, and when Lippa rises she finds that Jimmy is sitting one off her, only Teddy between. It is the first time she has seen him since her mother's death, and she wonders if he will speak when they get out of church, and why he ever came into their pew. But when the service is over, Teddy having sung lustily in his shrill voice, nothing awkward takes place.

'A merry Christmas,' he says.

'The same to you,' replies Philippa.

'Are you going to walk home?' he asks.

'No, we are going back in a hansom.'

Here Teddy interrupts with, 'Did you know I've got a sister, you'll come and see her, won't you?'

'I shall be delighted,' replies Dalrymple, looking at Lippa, who has turned her head away. 'May I come?' he asks in a low voice.

But Miss Seaton does not answer, as Lady Dadford suddenly appears, 'Ah! my dear child,' she exclaims, 'how is the sweet mother and the baby?'

So a long string of questions ensues, and Philippa answers them, feeling that Jimmy is watching her, and suddenly she meets his eye, and there is a look of entreaty in them that makes her smile back; such a dear little tender smile, that it causes Dalrymple to start, while a new life seems to course through his veins.

Ah! what a great deal a pretty woman's smile may do, of good and often alas of harm.

How many men have been lured on by a smile and only too late have awoke from its enchantment. Oh, women, women, some of you hardly take into consideration what a great part you take in the world's drama; with you it lies to make or mar the lives of the men, be they brothers, husbands, sons or merely friends; it is in your power to make them God-fearing, true gentlemen; and it is you too, who drag them down till they become mere lovers of pleasure, giving way to every vanity, forgetting surely that they are human beings, with immortal souls!

It is tea-time, and in Brook Street Lippa has just begun to pour out that delicious beverage for herself and her brother, when the door opens and Dalrymple walks in.

'Hullo,' says George, 'what an age it is since you have been near the house—'

'Yes,' replies Jimmy, rather lamely, taking Philippa's proffered hand.

'How do you do, again,' says she, 'you will have some tea, won't you?'

Jimmy says, 'Thanks,' and for a second or two there is an awkward pause, neither Lippa nor Dalrymple feeling quite at their ease, and George never speaks except it is necessary; but Teddy suddenly appears, and suggests that the baby ought to be visited, and after a long argument as to who it is like, remembers that he came with a message to the effect that his mother wanted to speak to his father.

'Why didn't you tell me before?' says George.

'I'd forgotten it,' replies his son placidly; nothing ever disturbs Teddy's peace of mind.

'You'll wait till I come back,' says Mr Seaton turning to Dalrymple, and the door shuts.

A little time is passed in uninteresting conversation on the weather and things in general, till every subject they can think of has been exhausted, when Lippa finds that Dalrymple is looking at her, she fiddles with her teaspoon in her cup and then raises her eyes to his, and finding them still fixed on her, returns to the teaspoon symphony, but he rises and leans against the mantelpiece.

'Philippa,' he says in a low tone, 'I have tried so hard to think badly of you, but to-day you looked so kindly at me, you did not do it for nothing, did you, Lippa tell me, will you bid me go away a second time? I am not rich, but I might sell out and get some more remunerative employment, and if you only knew how I love you—'

Miss Seaton has risen, her head bent down and slightly averted from her lover's ardent gaze. 'I—er—I,' she begins then pauses, and not knowing what to say she looks up, makes a step forward and is in Jimmy's arms.

'Oh,' she says, 'I thought it would all come right at last.'

'Dearest,' says he, 'tell me why were you so cruel before; you can't think what I've suffered?'

'So have I,' is the reply.

'But what made you do like that?'

'It's a long story, so don't you think we might as well sit—'

'Sweetheart,' is all he says pressing his lips to her brow.

And then Philippa explains all, for quite half-an-hour they remain alone, and then George, thinking they have been long enough together (he having come in and retired again unobserved in a very inauspicious moment) opens the door, at the same time giving vent to a very loud and prolonged cough.