If integrity and upright conduct be commendable qualities, no man should covet the distinction of being considered a man of the world. And yet to be known as such is to command admiration. But then the world--meaning ourselves--often finds it convenient not to examine too curiously. The man of the world whose reputation rests upon a sound foundation is sure to get the best of his neighbours. He is shrewd and sharp and cunning, and, like the fretful porcupine, so armed at all points as to be almost certain of wounding whatever comes in contact with him. Frankness beams in his eye, but calculation sits in his soul; he gets information out of you by side strokes, and profits by it; he brings you round by the artfullest of roads to the point he is working for; he pumps you dry so skilfully that you do not feel thirsty in the process; and he leaves you under the impression that he is the most amiable of companions. Fortunate it is for you if farther experience of his amiability do not compel you, with groans, to reverse this verdict. Attached to the popular interpretation of "man of the world" are profound and puzzling depths. A man fails in business, lifts up his eyes, looks mournfully around him, buys sackcloth and ashes, sighs frequently, is soul-despondent, grows a little shabby, meets his creditors, obtains his release, and, hey, presto! smilingly re-enters, the circle from which he has been temporarily banished--re-enters it calm and confident, with no sign of defeat upon him. He is received with open arms, for it is whispered that he has "means;" and if one says to another, "Is it not strange that Mr. Plausible, who was in such difficulties last month, and was supposed to be ruined, should be living now in such good style?" it is ten to one that another answers, "He is a man of the world, sir, a thorough man of the world;" and lifts his hat to Mr. Plausible, who just at that moment happens to pass by. See the other side of the picture. A man fails in business, is soul-crushed, looks mournfully about him, shrinks from his former friends, grows old quickly, sits in sackcloth and ashes, sinks down, down in the world, obtains his release after bitter struggling, and never raises his head again; one says to another, "Poor Mr. Straight! Regularly crushed, isn't he?" And another answers, "What else could be expected? Straight never was a man of the world;" and turns his back upon the unfortunate, who, just at that moment, happens to be coming towards them. To be a completely successful man of the world, one must be thoroughly selfish, often dishonest, often false, seldom conscientious, and the porcupine quills which guard his precious interests must be well sharpened. If now and then there is blood upon them, what matters? Blood is easily washed off--but they say the smell remains.

Mr. David Sheldrake was such a man. With his quills always sharpened and often drawing blood, he walked through life enjoying its good things, believing that when they did not come to him easily he had a right to appropriate them. The lives of some men present singular contradictions. Dishonest persons are often charitable and kindly-hearted. Thoroughpaced rogues are often good husbands and good fathers. Very few men see straight. Nearly every one of us has a moral squint. Not that the career of Mr. Sheldrake presented any such contradiction. If he had been married, he could not have been a good husband; if he had had children, he could not have been a good father: he was too selfish. He was one of those who never have stings of conscience, simply because he believed that he had a right to have and to enjoy whatever he desired. In his own class he was a triton among the minnows. It was not a very desirable class, nor were its manners and customs to be commended; the first grand aim of its members was not to do unto others as you would others should do unto you, but to do all others, and take care others should not do you. No form of cheating and rascality was too bad for them, if an honest penny could be turned by it; and it is a sad thing to be compelled to say that even the honour that can be found among thieves was very seldom to be found among them--thus showing their tribe to be special and distinctive. It was but a poor game, after all, for the majority of them; as can be seen by going to any race-course, and observing the ragged crew who, while the horses are being saddled and taking their preliminary canters, rush this way and that, and hustle each other, and push and elbow their way fiercely, almost madly, through the crowds of their excited brethren. Mr. Sheldrake was above this ragged crew; he floated while others sank. As a proof of his respectability, what better could be desired than the fact that he had been known to shake hands with lords, and had betted ponies and monkeys with them?

But, sharp and cunning as he was, armed at all points as he was, he had his vulnerable point. What man has not? Do you know of one? I do not. And you have but to find it out to shake the decorous owner from his propriety. Archimedes would have shaken the world itself, had you given him a convenient place for his lever and standing room for himself.

The weak spot in Mr. David Sheldrake's character was that he did not like to be beaten. If he set his heart ever so lightly upon a thing and found it difficult of accomplishment, he instantly grew earnest in the pursuit of it, however trivial it might be. When he first saw Lily in the Royal White Rose Music-hall he was attracted by her pretty face, and he thought it could be no difficult matter to gain her favour. He had been successful before--why not now? His free manners and free purse had been an open sesame to sham affection before to-day; they would not fail him with Lily. But although he paid her pretty compliments in his softest tone, they did not produce the impression he intended. Other girls had received such gratefully, and had been merry with him; but Lily had no word of response for his honeyed speech. She received his compliments in silence and with eyes cast down. Little by little he discovered the difficulty of the task he had almost unconsciously set himself, and the value of the prize increased. He worked himself into a state of enthusiasm concerning her, and tried to believe that his feeling was genuine. It was not possible that a nature so purely selfish as his could love sincerely; but it pleased him to set up sham sentiment in its place, and he said to himself more than once, in tones of self-applauding satisfaction, "I do believe, David, you love that little beauty."

Lily knew nothing of this, for Mr. Sheldrake, after the futile result of his first tender advances, became cautious in his behaviour to her; he saw that there was danger of starting the game, and he went roundabout to secure it. A shrewd worldly girl, in Lily's place, would have seen at once that here were too lovers for her to choose from--Felix and Mr. Sheldrake--and she might, had she been very worldly, have worked one against the other; but Lily was neither shrewd nor worldly. To elevate her to the position of a heroine is a difficult task, for she had no marked qualities to fit her for the distinction. She was not strong minded, nor wilful, nor hoydenish, nor very far-seeing, nor very clever. She required to be led; she was not strong enough to lead. She was capable of devotion, of much love, of personal sacrifice, and was rich in the possession of the tenderest womanly qualities--of those qualities which make the idea of woman cherished in the innermost heart of every man whose good fortune it is to have been associated at some time of his life with a loving tender nature. Many a man has been kept pure by the memory of such an association; and although the present and future generations may have the advantage of those that have gone before in a more early comprehension of practical matters, and in the possession of a keener sense of the value of worldly things, it is much to be feared that the good and tender influence of woman is on the wane, and that the idea of womanly gentleness and purity, which has given birth to so much that is beautiful in the best sense of the word, is dying in the light of something infinitely coarser and less beneficial. We admire the sunflower, but we love the daisy.

Yes; Lily was dreaming. She had discovered her Prince in the person of Felix. In her musings she made him the embodiment of all that was good and noble and gentle. He was her hero, and she moulded him to her fancy, and beautified him, and idealised him. She enshrined her idealism in her heart of hearts, and found her greatest pleasure in worshipping it. So do we all at some time of our lives set up images for ourselves, and worship them, and discover too often, alas! that the feet of our idols are made of clay. It must not be supposed that Lily was fated to make this desolating discovery respecting Felix; he was in every way worthy of the love of a pure-minded girl, of such a love as Lily crowned him with, and as she was in every way capable of, notwithstanding the vitiated atmosphere of the Royal White Rose Music-hall. That she was enabled to retain, untarnished, the simplicity of character which made her beautiful, was due no less to her own innate purity than to the influence of her grandfather, who from her infancy had watched and guarded her with jealous care. Lily did not pause to ask herself if it was love she felt for Felix; she was too contented with the present to analyse her feelings; happiness took possession of her when he was with her, and it was sufficient for her to sit and listen and silently worship. She delighted to hear the unstinted praise which her grandfather bestowed upon Felix in his absence, and she fed upon the words, secretly repeating them to herself again and again, and finding new meanings for them. When she read in book or paper of a generous-souled man, "Like Felix!" she whispered; or of a generous deed performed, "As Felix would do!" she whispered. Felix had no idea of the good things which were credited to him--had no idea, indeed, that he was the idol of the girl whom he had grown to love; for Lily kept her secret close, and only whispered it to herself, and mused over it in those moments of solitude which she made sacred by her thoughts. So time went on.

Happy as she was in her dream, her wakeful life contained disturbing elements. It distressed her to see a slow but steady estrangement growing between her brother and her grandfather; it did not find expression in open speech, but it was no less sure, notwithstanding. In thinking of the matter, as she often did, Lily could not resolve from which side the coldness first sprang. But it was certain that Alfred steadily avoided his grandfather, and was uneasy in the old man's society. Many times, when Lily and Alfred were conversing together, and when Alfred perhaps was building castles in the air with enthusiastic speech, the entrance of his grandfather drove him into silence, or into monosyllabic answers to the old man's inquiries. He resented the quietly-watchful manner with which the old man regarded him on those occasions, and sometimes would leave the room suddenly and fretfully. Up to this time the old man had avoided speaking to Lily upon the subject. He knew how Lily loved her brother, and that the growing estrangement would be made more painful to her by an explanation of his fears. But although Old Wheels seemed to be not satisfied with the progress Alfred was making, everything, to all outward appearance, was prospering with the young man. Despite a worn expression of anxiety which often stole into his features unaware, and which he threw off resolutely immediately he became conscious of it, his general manner was more cheerful and confident. He was more extravagant in his habits, and dressed better. Lily was delighted at this, but her grandfather did not share her delight. He found cause for disturbing thought in these signs of prosperity. Alfred coming home in a new suit of clothes caused him to remark,

"Another new suit of clothes, Alfred!"

"Yes, grandfather," was Alfred's reply, in a half-defiant, half-careless tone. "Can't do without clothes, you know."

"You had a new suit a very little while ago, Alfred."

"Well, sir! I didn't come to you for the money to pay for them."

The old man was always gentle in his manner, but Alfred took offence even at this. It would have better pleased the young man if his grandfather had openly quarrelled with him.

"I hope you are not getting into debt, my boy."

"Never fear, sir; I've paid for this suit, and the last one too."

And Alfred avoided farther conversation by leaving the old man abruptly. But to Lily he was more affectionate than ever, and spoke glowingly of the future and of the great things he was about to accomplish.

"More than half the people in the world are fools," he said arrogantly; "they walk about with their eyes shut."

It was useless for Lily to ask him for the application of such trite observations; he evaded her with light laughs, and, being much given to slang, declared that he would "show some of them the road. You'll see, Lily, one of these days; you'll see."

She liked to hear him speak like this, for his manner at these times was always bright and confident. She attempted on occasions to draw him into conversation about the growing estrangement between him and his grandfather; but he steadily refused to speak upon the subject, farther than to say that "grandfather is not treating me well; he suspects me of I don't know what, and it isn't likely that I'm going to stand it."

"Of what can he suspect you, Alfred?" asked Lily.

"That's where it is. That's what I ask myself, for he never tells me. The fact of it is, Lily, grandfather is an old man, and I'm a young one. You can't put an old head on young shoulders, you know. I'm fond of pleasure and of seeing a little bit of life. All young fellows are. He'll confess himself wrong about me one of these days, and then it will be all right. Until then I sha'n't bother myself about it, and don't you. Perhaps I've a secret, and he wants to know it."

"Have you a secret, Alfred? I thought you told me everything."

"I only said 'perhaps,' Lily. I'll tell you by-and-by, when the proper time comes."

"Then you really have one. Come"--coaxingly, and with her arm round his neck--"tell me, Alf, or shall I guess it?"

He looked at her hesitatingly, as if half tempted to tell her, but he resisted the inclination.

"Not now, Lily, not now.--Everybody's got a secret, and perhaps--mind, I only say perhaps--I've got mine. Girls have their secrets as well as men. All except you, Lily. You haven't got one, I know; you wouldn't keep a secret from me, I'll be bound."

Lily blushed, and felt like a traitor, but she did not answer. She almost guessed his secret, and was glad of it, for it was a new bond of union between them. But as hers was sacred, so she felt his to be; she kissed him tenderly, and, looking into his eyes, with all her heart in hers, read something there it thrilled her to see. Then Alfred showed her a new chain he had bought, and while she was admiring it, Old Wheels entered the room.

"Show it to grandfather, Alf," she said.

But Alfred buttoned his coat, and said that grandfather didn't take an interest in such things. He fretted, however, because the old man glanced at him somewhat sadly and significantly, and very soon found an excuse to leave.

"Alfred goes out a great deal now, Lily," said Old Wheels. "Do you know where he goes to?"

"No," replied Lily, "but I suspect--I suspect!" with an arch glance at her grandfather.

"What do you suspect, my dear?"

"You must guess for yourself, dear grandfather, for I know nothing--nothing yet. But supposing--just supposing, grandfather--that a young man has a portrait in his pocket which he looks at very often, and won't let anybody else see for the world--that is a sign, isn't it?"

She asked this with a sly look into her grandfather's face; he was silent for a while, and said presently,

"Alfred has such a portrait, Lily?"

"Perhaps," she said, in unconscious imitation of her brother; "mind, I only say perhaps."

A footfall on the stairs; a brighter flush on Lily's cheek; knock at the door, and Felix entered. Happy moments followed. There was no lack of conversation when these three were together. But Lily had her duties to perform, and within an hour they were walking towards the Royal White Rose, and Felix bade Lily good-night at the stage-door.

"She sings early to-night," said Old Wheels, as they lingered near the entrance to the hall, and watched the strangely-suggestive throng that found their business or pleasure there. The words of a poet came to Felix, and he murmured the lines,

"In the street the tide of being, how it surges, how it rolls!
God what base ignoble faces God! what bodies wanting souls!"

But Old Wheels interrupted him with,

"Not so, Felix; that is a poet's rhapsody, and not applicable here. Look around you; you will see but few base ignoble faces. Some of them might be taken as models for innocence, simplicity, guilelessness. See here, and here."

He indicated this girl and that, whose pretty features and the expression on them served to illustrate his meaning.

"No," he continued, "not bodies wanting souls. They are misguided, ill-taught, misdirected, the unhappy ones of a system which seems to create them and make them multiply. The light attracts them; they see only the glitter, and do not feel the flame until they fly to it gaily; when, bewildered and dazzled, they are burnt and die, or live maimed lives for the rest of their days."

"I did not quote those lines," said Felix, "with any distinct idea of their applicability to this scene. What follows will please you better:--

'Mid this stream of human being, banked by houses tall and grim,
Pale I stand this shining morrow, with a pant for woodlands dim;
To hear the soft and whispering rain, feel the dewy cool of leaves;
Watch the lightning dart like swallows round the brooding thunder-eaves;
To lose the sense of whirling streets 'mong breezy crests of hills,
Skies of larks, and hazy landscapes, with fine threads of silver rills;
Stand with forehead bathed in sunset on a mountain's summer crown,
And look up and watch the shadow of the great night coming down;
One great life in my myriad veins, in leaves, in flowers, in cloudy cars,
Blowing, underfoot, in clover; beating, overhead, in stars!'"

"How many men have such vague dreams," said Old Wheels, "dreams that they can scarcely understand and can but feebly express! We live in a world of shadows. Come home with me; I have something to give you."

They walked in silence to Soho, and when they were in the little house, the old man said, "I have avoided speaking to you upon a certain subject for more than one reason, but I was aware that the time must come when silence could no longer be maintained. Our acquaintance was commenced in a strange manner, and you have been to me almost a new experience. I have taken such pleasure in your society—"

"It gives me inexpressible pleasure," interrupted Felix, "to hear you say so."

"--That I have, with somewhat of a cowardly feeling, often restrained myself from speaking to you on the subject which was referred to by your father on the day I buried my daughter."

"Pray, sir—"

"Nay," interposed Old Wheels gently and firmly, "this conversation cannot be avoided, and we must speak plainly. Consider the position in which we stand to one another, and ask yourself whether, if you were in my place, you would not feel it due to yourself to act as I am doing. If you remember, you came into your father's room while we were speaking of a matter in which you were pecuniarily interested. Doubtless you were well acquainted with all the particulars of the affair."

"No, sir," exclaimed Felix, eagerly, "I knew comparatively nothing. But a few minutes before your arrival upon your sad mission, my father and I were speaking upon business matters--for the first and only time. I had been away from home nearly all my life, and all the expense of my education and living were borne by an uncle from whom I supposed I had expectations. He died suddenly, and I returned home, possessing certain ideas and certain habits not pleasing to my father. The day on which you came to the rectory was appointed by my father for our business interview, and then I learned that my uncle had not left any property, and that I was not to come into the magnificent fortune my father had anticipated for me. This did not affect me, and all that I knew of the matter you have referred to was that my uncle had left behind him, among his papers, a document which contained, as my father said, the recital of a singular story, and which, in my father's opinion, might be worth money to me. That is all that passed between us until your arrival."

"Until my arrival," said Old Wheels, taking up the thread of the narrative, "When you heard from my lips that it was Lily's father who had brought this shame upon us. But doubtless, after my departure, you learned all the particulars from the document left by your uncle."

"No, sir, I know nothing more."

Old Wheels looked gratefully at Felix.

"It belongs to your character," he said, "to have practised such restraint; I might have expected as much. If you have the paper about you—"

"I have not got it, sir."

"You have it at home, then. I should like to see it, for I did not know of its existence before that day, and it might contain mis-statements which, for the children's sakes, should not be allowed to remain uncontradicted or unexplained. If I might ask you to let me read it—"

"It is impossible, sir; I cannot show it to you. Nay, do not misunderstand me," added Felix quickly, as he saw an expression of disappointment in the old man's face; "no one has any claim upon you, neither I nor any one connected with me. It is wiped off."

"Shame can never be obliterated," said Old Wheels, in a tone of mingled pride and sternness. "Have you the paper?"

"No, sir."

"Who has?"

"No one. It is burnt, and there is no record of the circumstance you have referred to."

"Burnt!" exclaimed Old Wheels, with a dim glimmering of the truth. "Who burnt it?"

"My uncle left a request that all his papers and documents should be burnt, unreservedly. My father, acting for me before I returned home, complied with the request, and burnt everything with the exception of this single document. It is with shame I repeat that he retained this because he thought it was worth money to me."

"So it was."

"My uncle's wish was sacred to me, and when you left my father's room, I burnt this paper, as all the others had been; it was my simple duty."

"Burnt it without reading it?"

"Yes, sir. What else would you have me do with it? Put yourself in my place, sir," he said, turning the old man's words against himself, "and say whether you would not have felt it due to yourself to act as I did."

Old Wheels held out his hand, and Felix grasped it cordially. These two men understood one another.

"You would give me faith if I needed it," said the elder; "you make me young again. It would have been my greatest pride to have had such a son."

Felix's heart beat fast at the words, and an eager light came into his eyes, for he thought of Lily; but he restrained his speech. The time had not yet come; he was very nearly penniless, and had no home for the girl who had won his heart; he had no right to speak.

"And notwithstanding this," said the old man, almost gaily, "a plain duty remains." He went to the cupboard, and took out the iron box in which he deposited his savings. "Here is the first instalment of the balance due," he said, handing a small packet of money to Felix, whose face grew scarlet as, with reluctant hand, he took the packet, for he divined truly that no other course was open to him; "soon it will all be repaid, and then a great weight will be lifted from us. I know your thought, Felix; but the money is yours by right, and such a debt as this is must not remain unpaid. Come, come--don't look downcast, or you will cause me to feel sorry that we have grown to be friends."

Felix felt the force of the old man's words, but could no help saying,

"If I could afford it, I would give much if this had not been."

"And what would I give, think you, could it be so? But the past is irrevocable. Were it not for this debt of shame hanging upon us, do you think I would have allowed Lily to occupy her present position?"

"She does not know—" interrupted Felix.

"She knows nothing of all this. She may one day; it may be my duty to tell her; and then, if any one reproaches her, she has her answer."

"Need she know, ever?" asked Felix eagerly, thinking of the pain the knowledge would cause her.

"I say she may, if only as a warning; for I think I see trouble coming. I pray that I may be mistaken, but I think I see it."

"I do not understand your meaning," said Felix earnestly; "but if I might venture to ask one thing, and you would grant it, it would be a great happiness to me."

"Let me hear what it is, Felix," replied Old Wheels gently.

"That if at any time I can be of use to you--if at any time you want a friend upon whom you can depend, and who would sacrifice much to serve you and your granddaughter—"

"That then I will call upon you? I promise."

"Thank you, sir."

"You must have wondered, seeing, as you have seen, how pure and simple my dear girl is--you must have wondered that I should have brought her into contact with such associations as those by which she is surrounded at the Royal White Rose. But it was what I conceived to be a sacred duty; and if I had had a shadow of a doubt that she was other than she is, I would have given my life rather than have done it, as you know."

"Truly, sir, as I know," assented Felix.

"I have watched her from infancy, and I know her purity. I pray that she may be spared from life's hard trials; but they may come to her, as they come to most of us. They may come to her undeservedly, and through no fault of hers; and if they do, and if, like Imogen, she has to pass through the fire, she will, like Imogen, come out unscathed."

Some hidden fear, some doubt which he was loth to express more plainly, prompted the old man's words. With an effort, he returned to his first theme.

"What else could I do? There was no other way of paying the debt. I have a small pittance of my own, from which not a shilling can be spared; our necessities demand it all. And when I think, as I do often, that this dear child, tender as she is, has been and is working to wipe out, as far as is humanly possible, the disgrace entailed upon us by her father's crime, I love her the more dearly for it."

He went to the mantelshelf, where the portraits of Lily hung, and gazed at them long and lovingly.

"To her as to others," he said softly, "life's troubles may come. To her may come, one day, the sweet and bitter experience of love. When it does, I pray to God that she may give her heart to a man who will be worthy of her--to one who holds not lightly, as is unhappily too much the fashion now, the sacred duties of life." The prescience of a coming trouble weighed heavily upon the old man, and his voice grew mournful under its influence. "In a few years I shall have lived my span, Felix; I may be called any day. Should the call come soon, and suddenly, who will protect my darling when I am gone?"

Felix drew nearer to the old man in sympathy, but dared not trust himself to speak.

"I speak to you," continued the old man, "out of my full heart, Felix, for I have faith in you, and believe that I can trust you. It relieves me to confide in you; strange as it may sound to you, you are the only person I know to whom I would say what I am saying now--you are the only person in whom I can repose this confidence, lame and incomplete as you will find it to be."

"Your granddaughter, sir—" suggested Felix.

"The fears that oppress me are on her account," interrupted the old man, "and I dare not at present speak to her of them; they would necessarily suggest doubts which would bring great grief to her."

"Her brother, sir, Alfred--could you not confide in him?"

The old man turned abruptly from Felix, as if by that sudden movement he could stifle the gasp of pain which involuntarily escaped him at this reference.

"Least of all in him, Felix--least of all in him! Do not ask me why; do not question me, lest I should do an injustice which it would be difficult to repair. Tell me. Have you ever noticed in Lily's manner an abstraction so perfect as to make her unconscious of surrounding things?"

"Not so perfect as you describe, sir," replied Felix, after a little reflection; "but I have noticed sometimes that she looks up suddenly, as if she had been asleep, and had just awoke. Now that you mention it, it strikes me more forcibly. This has always occurred when you and I have been engaged in conversation for some little time, and during a pause. But she is awake in an instant, and appears to be quite conscious of what we have been saying."

"These moods have come upon her only lately," said the old man, "and only when she is deeply stirred. There are depths in my darling's soul which even I cannot see. I am about to repose a confidence in you, Felix, and to tell you a secret concerning my darling of which she herself is ignorant. With the exception of one other, I believe that I am the only one that knows it, and it has given rise to fears of possible danger to her, in the event of anything occurring to me by which she would be deprived of my watchful care. She is but the child of my child, Felix, but she is so near to me, so dear, so precious, that if heart-photographs could be taken, you would see my darling in mine, lighting it up with her bright eyes and innocent face. She has grown into my heart, that I rejoice instinctively when she is happy, and am sad when she is sad. Our nature is capable of such instinctive emotions of joy and suffering, which spring sympathetically from the joy and suffering of those whom we love heartily and faithfully."

The old man paused, and Felix waited for his next words in intense anxiety.

"A few months since there was a benefit at the Royal White Rose, and a variety of new entertainments were introduced for the occasion. Among them was a short performance by a man who called himself an electro-biologist, and who professed to be able to so control the mental powers of other persons, as to make them completely subservient to his will. This is common enough and feasible enough; and whether this man was a charlatan or not, it is certain that what he professes is not all delusion, and may in time lead to important discoveries. The fact that mere earnestness on the part of one person produces certain effects upon the minds of others, is a sufficient proof that this so-called new science is founded upon a tangible basis. When Lily came home from the music-hall, on the night of this benefit, I noticed that she was much agitated, and although she tried to laugh away my inquiries into the cause of her agitation, by saying that she was a foolish girl, I could see that her gaiety was assumed. After a little while she told me that she had been frightened by this man, and that while she was watching his performances from the side of the stage, she seemed to be in some degree under his influence. The man, it appears, noticed the interest she took in his performance, and, when the curtain was down, addressed her, saying she was a good subject, and that he could make her do whatever he pleased. Lily was terrified, and tried to escape from him, but could not take her eyes from his face until his attention was diverted from her; then she ran to her room. Knowing how highly sensitive and nervous Lily's nature is, I was not surprised at the effect this man produced on her, but I need scarcely tell you that the incident gave me new cause for fear, and that I watched Lily more carefully. I purposely refrained from speaking with her upon the subject again, and since that time it has never been referred to between us. But soon afterwards another circumstance occurred to cause me alarm. It was the night on which her mother died. We none of us knew on the day of her death that it was so near, and Lily went as usual to the music-hall to fulfil her duties. She came home late--at midnight. Shortly after she came home, her mother died. Alfred was away--had been away all the night; and it was not until two o'clock in the morning that we heard his step upon the stairs. Lily went out to meet him. I being angry with him for his thoughtlessness, and for another reason, which I cannot explain, remained for a little while with the dead body of his mother--thinking also that, at such a solemn time, the undisturbed communion of brother and sister would be consoling to Lily. When I went into Lily's room, I saw that Lily's grief had been deepened by her brother's coming home flushed with drink. I had a solemn duty to fulfil that night; Alfred is but a young man, with many temptations thrown in his way, and I hoped that something which I had to say to him might, under the influence of such an event as had occurred, have a good effect upon him in the future--might teach him a lesson which would make him less selfishly wrapt in his own pleasures, and more thoughtful of us--no, not of us, of Lily, whom he loves, I believe, very truly, and whom he would not consciously harm for any consideration. But the old lines are bitterly true, 'that evil is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart.' In justice to Alfred, I must not relate to you the nature of our conversation. I brought him into this room, where his dead mother lay. Lily begged that she might come and sit with us, but I could not permit her--the pain she would have suffered would have been greater than that she had already experienced, and I bade her good-night, and begged her to go to bed. She submitted unresistingly--her nature is singularly gentle--and Alfred and I left her. It was daylight when our interview was ended; Alfred and I went to the door, and opening it, saw Lily lying on the ground, asleep. Poor child! she had been much agitated by the events of the night, and was frightened of solitude, so she had come to the door of the room where we were sitting, finding companionship in being near us, and hearing perhaps the murmur of our voices. Thus she must have fallen asleep. I called to her, 'Lily!' To my surprise, she rose slowly, and stood before us; but she was not awake. She nestled to me, and came into the room, still asleep; and even when I led her into her own room, she followed me, still sleeping. We laid her upon her bed, and I sat by her for hours, watching her. When she awoke, she had no consciousness of what had passed, and I would not distress her by telling her. Three times since that night I have discovered her in the same condition. Her rooms open into mine, as well as into the passage, and it is usual for her to call out a good-night to me as she puts out her candle. I always wait for these last words from her before I retire to rest. My bed, you see, is behind this screen, where her poor mother lay sick for so long a time. On the first of the three occasions I have mentioned she kissed me, thoughtfully as I observed, and went into her room. I waited for a long time for her 'Good-night, grandfather,' but it did not come. I whispered her name at the door, and asked in a low voice if she were asleep. I spoke low on purpose, for if she were sleeping I did not wish to disturb her. She did not answer me; but I saw the light still burning in her room, and I opened the door gently, and saw her sitting by the table. She had not undressed herself. I went to her side, and took her hand. She rose, and I saw that she was asleep. Fearful of the consequences of suddenly arousing her, I thought it best to leave her; I led her to the bed, and left the room, taking the candle with me. I did not sleep, however; I waited and listened, and within an hour I heard her moving about the room. When she was quiet again, I went in, and found that she had undressed and gone to bed. The following morning I thought she would have spoken to me about it and about the candle being removed, but she made no reference to the circumstance. After that I was more carefully observant of her, and in less than a fortnight I discovered her in the same condition for the second time. Anxious to test whether her mind was in a wakeful state, I returned to my room, and called to her. She turned her head at the sound of my voice, and I called again. She came from her room slowly, and sat down when I bade her; seemed to listen to what I said to her, and smiled, as if following my words, but did not speak. More and more distressed at this new experience of Lily, and fearful lest some evil to her might arise from this strange habit, I consulted in confidence a doctor who lives near here, who is somewhat of a friend of mine, and whose knowledge and ability deserve a larger practice than he enjoys. He was much interested in my recital; he knows Lily, and has attended her on occasions. More than once he has spoken to me about her delicate mental organisation. 'The girl is all nerves,' he has said; 'an unkind word will cut her as surely as a knife; she is like a sensitive plant, and should be cared for tenderly.' And then he has said that as she grew older she might grow stronger. But, you see, it has not been so. I asked him whether he could account for the condition in which I found her, and at his request I related to him every particular and every detail which might be supposed to be associated with it. He said he could come to but one conclusion--that these abstractions, as he called them, came upon her when she was brooding upon some pet idea, or when her feelings were unusually stirred by surrounding circumstances. If her mind were perfectly at rest, he said, she would not be subject to these abstractions. His theory sufficiently accounted for her condition on the night of her mother's death, but did not account for what occurred afterwards. I knew of nothing that was agitating her, and so I told him; but he only smiled, and said, 'You will probably know some day; still waters run deep. Quiet as your granddaughter is, she is, from my knowledge of her, capable of much deeper and stronger feeling than most women.' And then he made me promise, the next time I found her in this condition, to run round for him. 'It should not be allowed to grow upon her,' he said, 'and I may be able to advise you better after personal observation of her.' Last night the opportunity occurred. I found Lily kneeling by her bed, dressed and asleep. I closed the door softly upon her, and went for the doctor. 'Now,' he said, as we hurried here, 'I do not think it well that she should hear a strange voice, so I will not speak while I am in the room with her. But I may wish you to say certain things to her, perhaps to ask a question or two; I will write them in pencil, so that I shall have no occasion to speak.' We found Lily in the same position--still kneeling by her bedside. I did what I had done on the previous occasion, I called her by name; but I had to place my hand upon her shoulder, and call her again, before she rose. She followed me into this room, as she had done before, and at my bidding sat down, resting her head upon her hand. The doctor wrote upon paper, 'Speak to her in a gentle voice upon indifferent subjects--about the weather, or anything that suggests itself to you.' I obeyed, and she seemed to listen to what I said. But the doctor wrote, She hears your voice, which harmonises with her condition, as would the voice of any one that she loved; it falls upon her senses like a fountain, but it is the sound only that she hears--she does not understand your words. Appeal to her through her affections, by speaking to her of some one whom she loves.' I said then, 'Lily, I am going to speak to you about Alfred.' Her face lighted up as I mentioned her brother's name, and she leant forward eagerly. 'She hears and understands,' wrote the doctor, and then desired me to say other things to her. But I must not tell you more of the details of that interview, Felix; for the dear girl's sake, I must not. The doctor told me, before he went away, that he was satisfied that his theory was correct. 'She retires to her room,' he said, and sits or kneels, as we found her to-night, in a state of wakefulness. While in this position she muses upon something dear to her, and so completely lost does she become in the contemplation, that she sinks into slumber, and continues musing upon her thought even in her sleep. This to a certain extent accounts for her being susceptible to outward sound, and especially to the sound of voices that she loves. Her musings are happy ones, and please her--so that when she hears a familiar voice, one that is inwoven with her affections, as it were, it harmonises with her mental condition; it pleases her, and she seems to listen. This is all that I can say up to this point, with my imperfect knowledge of her inner life, and with the brief observation that I have made. But I have no doubt that I am right.' It seems to me, Felix, that his theory is very near the truth, and if you knew the fears by which I am tortured, but which I dare not commit to words, you would better understand my grief. But it has relieved me to open my heart to you thus far, for I know that you will respect my confidence."

"Indeed I will, sir," said Felix, in a tone of deep earnestness, "for your sake and Lily's; and if ever I can be of service to you or to her, depend upon my truth and honour, and trust me to do it. If I dared to ask you one question—"

"Ask it, Felix," said the old man, as Felix hesitated.

"Do not answer it, sir, if it is a wrong one. What you said to Lily at the doctor's request, and which you must not repeat—" but here he hesitated again.

"Well," said the old man, kindly and encouragingly, and yet with a certain sadness.

"Did it refer to matters in which you suppose she took an affectionate interest?"

"Yes, Felix."

"And did she answer you, sir?"

"By signs, Felix, not by words. You must be content with this."

Felix asked no more questions, but after he bade the old man good-night, thought much of the events of the past few hours.

"How much hidden good there is in the world!" he mused. "What a sweet lesson is contained in the life of this dear girl! She has a secret. Ah, if that secret concerns me, and I can win her heart! But how dare I think of it--I, without a nest to take my bird to? Ah, if I could build a nest!"