When Mr. Loveday, the bookseller in Church Alley, heard of his brother's death in a letter which Nansie wrote to him, he fell to reproaching himself for the small grief he experienced at the news. The intelligence did not, indeed, create within him any profound impression. He and his brother had been separated for a great many years, and the bond of love which had united them in their childhood had become weaker and weaker till it scarcely held together. It is true that death strengthened it somewhat, but it could never again be what it once was. The humanly selfish cares of life are so engrossing that love which is not in evidence dies gradually away. That "absence makes the heart grow fonder" is as false as are nine out of ten of other sentimental proverbs.

"Timothy," said Mr. Loveday to his new assistant, who was proving himself a perfect treasure, "when little Teddy died you were very sorry."

"I was more than sorry, sir," said Timothy, becoming instantly grave; "I was almost heart-broken."

"Have you got over it?" asked Mr. Loveday.

"I shall never get over it," replied Timothy.

"Do you think that will be true all your life long?"

"I am certain it will be, sir."

"And yet you were not related to him."

"No, sir; but I could not have loved a brother more."

Mr. Loveday winced.

"You regard that as a very strong tie, Timothy."

"A brother's love, sir?"

"Yes."

"I can hardly imagine a stronger. If I had a brother I should so love him that I think I should be ready to die for him."

"Ah!" mused Mr. Loveday, "perhaps if my brother had died when we were boys together, I should not be reproaching myself now for not feeling his death more keenly."

As a penance, he inflicted a punishment upon himself. Since he had taken Timothy into his service his life had been easier and more agreeable than it had been for a considerable time past. He was no longer tormented by small worries, which, after a long recurrence of them, become, in certain stages of mental irritation, veritable mountains of evil. Timothy had more than one rare gift, and not one more precious and beneficial in its effect upon others than the gift of thoughtfulness. This, extending to the most trivial matter where his own interests were not involved, was invariably displayed by Timothy when opportunity offered, and it was natural, therefore, that in his new and important position in Mr. Loveday's business and household, it should come into play with greater force. The result was that not a day passed without Mr. Loveday being made aware that he had enlisted in his service a lad who seemed bent upon making everything go on smoothly around him. Heaven only knows where Timothy picked up all he knew; it was likely the outcome of a willing, cheerful, practical spirit, and of one who knew how to profit by observation; but Timothy, who had never learned how to cook, could cook a chop and a steak and a potato to perfection, and before long could prepare more ambitious dishes in a manner to satisfy his master's not very fastidious taste; and Timothy, who had never passed an apprenticeship in domestic service, could and did apply himself with skilful efficiency to the thousand and one drudgeries of domestic affairs. Moreover, he did his work neatly and unobtrusively. There were no sudden noises now in Mr. Loveday's establishment; no unreasonable breakages of crockery; and, what Mr. Loveday thoroughly appreciated, no waste. It could not be but that Mr. Loveday noted with gratefulness this improvement in his surroundings, and therefore, being at ease and in rare peace of mind, the punishment he inflicted upon himself for not taking the news of his brother's death more closely to heart was really no light one. It was to write to Nansie and remind her, if she needed reminding, that he had promised her father to give her the shelter of his home.

"My dear niece," he wrote, "the intelligence you have conveyed to me of your dear father's death has deeply affected me--"

He broke off here and sat, pen in hand, ruminating, with his eyes fixed upon the words he had written. "I suppose," he thought, "that life could not be carried on without duplicity. Here am I, for the purpose of self-defence, where I am not openly accused, and of proving that I am not quite a monster, calmly presenting myself in a false light to a young person whom I saw only once in my life and do not in the least remember. But what kind of a world would this be, I wonder, if the exact truth were always told?"

He continued his letter:

"I knew that he was ill, but had no idea he was in a dangerous state, or I should not have neglected coming to see him. However, there is no recalling the past, and regrets, though poignant, are idle in a case like this, where the blow that has fallen is irremediable. I do not intend to reproach you for your neglect of a duty, which very likely, because of our being comparative strangers, did not present itself to you in such a light, but I feel strongly the loss of the opportunity of attending my dear brother's funeral. Had you written to me when he died I certainly should have come down to you, and have done whatever lay in my power to soften your affliction."

He broke off again and mused. "'Words, words, words,' as Hamlet says. And yet I could almost deceive myself by believing that they are true. I should have gone down, and perhaps with something of the full heart which I am endeavoring to express to my niece Nansie. It is a curious way of spelling the name, but I like it better than Nancy. It is more poetical; but there was always a vein of poetry in my brother's nature." The tenderness in him was growing stronger, and he found comfort in it as he plied his pen again.

"I will not ask you why you were silent. You doubtless had your reasons, one of which, perhaps, was that you were doubtful of me, and that you regarded me as little better than a stranger. In this you are not to blame, but if such a feeling exists I desire to remove it. Some little while ago your father wrote to me of his circumstances, and of his anxiety respecting you in the event of anything happening to him. In my reply, I told him that you could always find a home with me. From imperfect knowledge I gather that my dear brother left but little worldly wealth behind him; and my principal object in writing to you now is to convey to you the offer of my home which I made to him. Whether we should suit each other remains to be seen, but I would endeavor honestly to be kind to you, and if you inherit any of your father's amiable qualities, I have no doubt that we should get along comfortably together. I have no ties of women and children about me; my home is a poor one, but such as it is, it is yours if you choose to accept it."

This was the gist of Mr. Loveday's letter to Nansie, who read it with satisfaction. When it arrived Kingsley was absent, winding up his affairs, and the first thing Nansie did upon his return was to give it to him to read.

"Did you tell him you were married?" asked Kingsley.

"No," replied Nansie. "To tell you the truth, Kingsley, I scarcely knew in what light to regard him."

"He says something to that effect in his letter," remarked Kingsley, "but it seems to be honestly and sincerely written."

"I think so, too," said Nansie.

"But you see," said Kingsley, "in his offer of a home--which is very kind; I do not underrate it--he evidently looks upon you as a single young lady."

"I shall write, telling him that I am married."

"It will be best; and write soon, else he might think there was something wrong--of which, my dear," added Kingsley, rubbing his forehead, "I am not quite sure myself."

"What makes you say that, Kingsley?" asked Nansie, anxiously.

"Well, my darling," replied Kingsley, "it is altogether the best to look things straight in the face, isn't it?"

"Quite the best, dear."

"We have decided on that before, Nansie."

"Yes, dear."

"It isn't the first time I have made the remark, but that does not lessen its force and truth. Well, then, my affairs are settled."

"Is everything paid, Kingsley?"

"Everything. We do not owe one penny in the world. What do you think I discovered, Nansie?"

"I cannot imagine, dear."

"That I had a great deal more property than I supposed."

"That is delightful news, dear."

"Yes, isn't it?" said Kingsley, with a light, puzzled laugh. "When I say property, I don't mean land. Wish I could mean it, because it would represent something tangible in the way of an income, perhaps; and that is what we want, Nansie, don't we? An income."

"It would be very pleasant, dear," said Nansie, with a fond look of pity at him.

"Yes, very pleasant; it would rub away the crosses of life."

She recalled him to his theme.

"You were saying that you discovered you had more property than you supposed?"

"Yes, that is what I was saying. And not land, as I should have liked; but wine. Really a little stock, and of the best. Of course it would be the best. And books, some of them valuable; and bric-À-brac. I was astonished when we came to look through them. And pictures, too. I was surprised how ever I came to buy them; but money always burned in my pockets, Nansie. When it was there it had to be spent. Do you know a greater pleasure, my dear, than spending money?"

"It is a pleasant occupation, Kingsley, when one has it to spare."

"Of course, that."

"Do me a great favor, dear."

"I will. Just say what it is."

"Tell me everything you did while you were away, without--without--"

Kingsley laughed gayly and took up her words.

"Without flying off into side paths, eh? Keep to the main road. Is that the great favor?"

"Yes, dear."

"Very good. I will try. But just consider, Nansie--only for a moment; I will not detain you longer than a moment. Here we are, you and I--the best company in the world, my darling--walking along the main road. Very grand, very stately, very wide. Everything according to regulation. It is a very long road--it generally is, Nansie--and there is an overpowering sameness about it. My feeling is that it is becoming tiresome, when all at once I see, on the left or the right, a little narrow lane with a hedge on each side; at the end of the hedge, some cottages, dotted here and there, with flowers in the windows; at the end of the cottages some tall trees, meeting and forming an arch. What do we do? Without thinking, we turn from the grand main road into the little narrow lane, and the moment we do so we breathe more freely and begin to enjoy. That is an illustration of my manner, dear. Do you recognize it?"

"Yes, dear Kingsley."

"It isn't unpleasant, is it? Confess, now."

"Nothing that you do, dear, can be unpleasant. But remember what you said a few days ago. We must be practical."

Nansie did not utter these words in a serious tone. On the contrary, her voice was almost as light as Kingsley's, and as she spoke she laid her hand upon his shoulder, and smiled with bright affection. He kissed her, and replied with animation and decision:

"Exactly. That is what we are going to be. So now for the great favor. Well, I commenced by going through my property and being surprised. Then I went to the tradesmen to whom I owed money, and said: 'Make out your bills and send them in.' One or two inquired whether I was going to pay. I said, 'Of course--what else?' When they heard that--I refer to those who, to my astonishment, appeared a little uneasy about the money I owed them--they said, 'Oh, but there's no hurry, Mr. Manners. We will send in the account at the end of the year.' But I said, 'No; at once, if you please.' When they came in I did not examine them; I laid them carefully aside in their envelopes. Then I went to an auctioneer, and gave him instructions to sell all my property. I wished him to do it immediately--that very day, but he would not; he said it would involve too great a sacrifice; but that was my affair, not his. It is unaccountable that people will not do the thing you want done in your way, but in their own. However, I hurried my friend the auctioneer as much as I could, and the result of it all was, that I found myself two hundred pounds richer than I had supposed."

"How pleased I am, Kingsley!"

"So was I. It seemed to me as if I had discovered a gold mine. Then I sat down with a clean sheet of ruled foolscap before me, and opened the tradesmen's accounts, and put down the figures, and totted them up. The result was that I found I owed four hundred pounds more than I had supposed."

"Oh, Kingsley!"

"It was vexing, but there it was, and there was no help for it. I went about my affairs in the practical way, did I not?"

"Yes, my dear; it was the only way to arrive at the truth."

"And to look it straight in the face. I kept to the main road, but if a view of a narrow lane had presented itself, I believe I should have been tempted to wander a little. My dear, I paid all the accounts, and I was left with--how much do you think?"

"I am afraid to guess, Kingsley."

"Something under ten pounds. Was I dashed? Did I despair? Not at all. Said I to myself, said I--by the way, Nansie, I once came across an old novel with just that title; an odd one, isn't it?--said I to myself, said I, to work, to work! Something must be done, for my dear Nansie's sake."

"How proud I am of you, Kingsley!"

"Thank you, dear. So what did I do? I can sketch a little in colors, you know."

"You can paint very well, Kingsley. When you said, the other night, that you saw pictures but could not paint them, I knew you were wrong, though I did not contradict you."

"Thank you again, dear. Nothing would please me better than to be a poor artist, with you, rich and influential, for my patron."

"I should give you every shilling I possessed, Kingsley."

"And you call yourself practical. Nonsense, nonsense! It is I who am the practical one. I proved it. I bought watercolors, drawing-paper, pencils, brushes, a nice little outfit for thirty-eight shillings, and, Nansie, I set to work. Upon my honor, I painted a picture which I considered not bad."

"What did you do with it? You have brought it with you?"

"No, my dear little wife, I sold it."

"Why, Kingsley," said Nansie, in a delighted tone, "you have actually already made a start."

"I have," said Kingsley, laughing heartily. "The picture painted, I took it out to the shops. My dear, they rather pooh-poohed it at first."

"They ought to have been ashamed of themselves," exclaimed Nansie, indignantly.

"They weren't. But I met with a patron at last. He was a stationer, and said the picture was of no use to him. 'But it's worth something,' I said. To be honest with you, Nansie, I was getting rather disgusted with the whole affair. 'It's worth something,' I said. 'Two-pence,' said the shop-keeper. 'Done,' said I, and I threw the picture on the counter, and held out my hand. He stared at me, but I gave him to understand that he had offered me two-pence for my picture, and that I accepted it. He stared harder than ever and handed me the two-pence. It is the first money I ever earned in my life, and I have brought it home to you. The experiment was a capital one, Nansie; it taught me something--that I am not cut out for a painter. Next to discovering what you can do, the best thing is to discover what you can't do. Having discovered it, turn the key on it."

Nansie gazed at him sadly. He was speaking with animation, and there was an excited flush in his face. His eyes were bright, and his manner was indicative of anything but disappointment.

"I thought then," continued Kingsley, "that I would try my friends, but when I came to consider, I arrived at the conclusion that there was only one to whom I could disclose my position. I went to him and made full confession. He is an older fellow than I, and wiser. What I like about him is that he doesn't say: 'You shouldn't have done this,' or 'You shouldn't have done that.' He hits the nail on the head. 'There is no hope of your father relenting?' said he. 'None,' said I. 'Time may soften him,' he said. 'Even if it does,' said I, 'there is a problem to solve while the grass is growing.' 'You must live,' said he, 'of course.' 'Of course,' said I. 'And you must work to live,' said he. I assented. 'Then,' said he, 'let us see what you are fit for.' My own thought, Nansie, put almost in my own words. But although we considered and talked we arrived at nothing tangible. He seemed really more troubled than I was, and at the end of a long conversation he said: 'Kingsley, old fellow, I can lend you a tenner.' It was noble of him, because he must have known that there was little chance of my being able to repay him. I thanked him, and said I wouldn't borrow in such circumstances as mine. Then he invited me to dine with him, and I accepted. And that, my dear Nansie, is all I have to tell you."

He gazed round at Nansie with the air of a man who had just finished a pleasant tale, and said:

"Now we will talk of something else."