Beaumont Buildings is scarcely the place one would choose in which to spend a summer's day; for, though they reach unto the heavens, they are, like most of their kind, somewhat stuffy, the dust of the great city in all their nooks and corners, and the noise of the crowded life penetrates even to the topmost flat.

The agent, a man of fine imagination and unlimited descriptive powers, states that Beaumont Buildings is "situated in a fashionable locality"; but though Fashion may dwell close at hand, and its carriages sometimes roll luxuriously through the street in which the Buildings tower, the street is a grimy and rather squalid one, in which most of the houses are shops—shops of the cheap and useful kind which cater for the poor.

There is always a noise and a blare in Beaumont Street. The butcher not only displays his joints and "block ornaments" outside his shop, but proclaims their excellence in stentorian tones; and the grocer and fruiterer and fishmonger compete with the costermongers, who stand yelling beside their barrows from early morn to late and gaslit night.

The smells of Beaumont Street are innumerable, and like unto the sea shells for variety; and the scent of oranges, the pungent odor of fried fish, from the shop down the side street, and that vague smell familiar to all who dwell in the heart of London, rise and enter the open windows.

On the pavement and in the roadway, among the cabs and tradesmen's carts, the children play and yell and screech; and at night the song of the intoxicated as he rolls homeward, or is conveyed to the nearest cell by the guardian of the peace he is breaking, flits across the dreams of those in the Buildings who are so unfortunate as to sleep lightly; and they are many.

And yet in a small room of a small flat on the fourth floor of this Babel of noise and unrest sat Nell.

Eighteen months had passed since she made her sacrifice and left Wolfer House. The black dress in which she looked so slight, and against which the ivory pallor of her face was accentuated, was worn as mourning for Mrs. Lorton; for that estimable lady had genteelly faded away, and Nell and Dick were alone in this transitory world.

The sun was pouring through the open window, and Nell had dragged her chair into the angle of the wall just out of the reach of the hot beams, but still near the window, in the hope of catching something of the smoke-laden air which away out in the country must be blowing so fresh and sweetly.

As she bent over the coat which she was mending for Dick, she was thinking of one place over which that same air was at that moment wafting the scent of the sea and the flowers—Shorne Mills; and, as she raised her eyes and glanced at the triangular patch of sky which was framed by the roofs of the opposite houses, she could see the picture she loved quite distinctly, and almost hear—notwithstanding the intermezzo banged out by the piano organ in the street below—the songs and whistling of the fishermen, and the flap of the sails against the masts. Let the noise in and outside the Buildings be as great as it might, she could always lose herself in memories of Shorne Mills; and if sorrow's crown of sorrow be the remembering of happier days, such remembrance is not without its consolation.

When Dick and she had come to the Buildings, two months ago, Nell felt as if she should never get used to the crowded place and its multitudinous discomforts; but time had rendered life, even amid such surroundings, tolerable; and there were moments in which some phase of the human comedy always being played around her brought the smile to her pale face.

Presently she glanced at the tiny clock on the mantelshelf, and, laying the coat aside, put the kettle on the fire, and got ready for tea; for Dick would soon be home from the great engineering works on the other side of the water, and he liked his tea "to meet him on the stairs."

As she was cutting the bread for the toast there came a knock at the door, and in answer to her "Come in!" the door was opened halfway, and a head appeared around it.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Lorton. Lorton not in? I thought I heard his step," said a man's voice, but one almost as soft as a woman's.

Nell scarcely looked up from her task; the tenants of Beaumont Buildings are sociable, and their visits to one another were not limited to the fashionable hours. For instance, the borrowing and returning of a saucepan or a sewing machine, or some lump sugar, went on all day, and sometimes late into the night; and the borrower or lender often granted or accepted a loan without stopping the occupation which he or she happened to be engaged in at the entrance of the other party.

"Not yet. It is scarcely his time, Mr. Falconer. Is it anything I can do?"

The young man came in slowly and with a certain timidity, and stood by the mantelshelf, looking down at her as she knelt and toasted the bread. He was very thin—painfully so—and very pale. There were shadows round his large, dark eyes—the eyes of a man who dreams—and his black hair, worn rather long, swept away from a forehead as white as a woman's, but with two deep lines between the eyes which told the story of pain suffered patiently and in silence.

His hands were long and thin—the hands of a musician—and the one on which his chin rested as he leaned against the mantelshelf trembled slightly. He had been practicing for three hours. He wore an old, a very old black velvet jacket, and trousers bulgy at the knees and frayed at the edges; but both were well brushed, and his shirt and collar were scrupulously clean, though, like the trousers, they; showed signs of wear.

He occupied a room just above the Lortons' flat, and the sound of his piano and violin had entered so fully into Nell's daily life that she was sometimes conscious of a feeling of uneasiness when it ceased, and often caught herself waiting for it to begin again.

"Is it anything I can do?" she asked again, as he remained silent and lost in watching her.

"Oh, no!" he said. "I wanted him to help me lift the piano to another part of the room. The sun comes right on to it now, and it's hot. I tried by myself, but——" He stopped, as if he were ashamed of his weakness. "You've no idea how heavy a piano can make itself, especially on a hot day."

"He will be in directly, and delighted to help you. Meanwhile, help me make the toast, and stop to tea with us."

"I'll help you with the toast," he said. "But I've had my tea, thanks."

It was a falsehood, for he had run out of tea two days before; but he was proud as well as poor, which is a mistake.

"Oh, well, you can pretend to drink another cup," said Nell lightly; for she knew that the truth was not in his statement.

He stuck a slice of bread on a toasting fork, but did not kneel down before the fire for a moment or two.

"Your room faces the same way as mine," he said. "But it always seems cooler." His dark eyes wandered round meditatively. Small as the room was, it had that air of neatness which indicates the presence of a lady. The tea cloth was white, the few ornaments and pictures—brought from The Cottage—the small bookcase and wicker-work basket gave a touch of refinement, which was wholly wanting in his own sparsely furnished and always untidy den. "Coming in here is like—like coming into another world. I feel sometimes as if I should like to suggest that you should charge sixpence for admission. It would be worth that sum to most of the people in the Buildings, as a lesson in the use and beauty of soap and water and a duster."

Nell smiled.

"I think it is wonderful that they keep their rooms as clean as they do, seeing that every time one opens the windows the blacks pour in——"

"Like Zulus into a zareba—if that's what they call it. Yes; no denizen of the Buildings would feel strange in Africa, for, whatever the weather may be, the blacks are always with us. Should you say that this is done on this side?"

He held up the slice on the toasting fork for her inspection.

"Beautifully! Turn it, please."

"I hope to Heaven I shan't drop it! There you are! I knew I should."

"Well, you can keep that one for yourself," said Nell, laughing.

He listened to the laugh, with his head a little on one side.

"I like to hear that," he said, almost to himself, "though, sometimes, I wonder how you can do it—you, who must always be longing for the fresh air—for the country."

Nell winced.

"What is the use of longing for that which one cannot have?" she said lightly, but checking a sigh.

He looked at her quickly, strangely, and a faint dash of color rose to his pale face.

"That's true philosophy, at any rate," he said, in a low voice; "but, all the same, one can't help longing sometimes."

As he spoke, he stole a glance at the beautiful face; and, in looking, forgot the toast, which promptly showed its resentment of his neglect by "catching," and filling the apartment with the smell of scorched bread.

"I think that's burning," said Nell.

"And I'm sure of it," he said penitently. "If ever you are in doubt as to the statement that man is a useless animal, set me to some simple task, Miss Lorton, and I'll prove it beyond question. Never mind, it's my slice, and charcoal is extremely wholesome."

"There's another; and do be careful! And how are you getting on?"

He jerked his head toward the sitting room above, where the piano was.

"The cantata? Slowly, slowly," he said thoughtfully. "Sometimes it goes, like a two-year-old; at others it drags and creeps along, and more often it stops altogether. You haven't heard it lately; perhaps that's the reason I'm sticking. I notice that I always get on better and faster after you—and Lorton—have been up to mark progress. Perhaps you'll come up this evening? It's cruel to ask you, I know, for you must hate the sound of my piano and fiddle, just as much as I hate the sound of Mrs. Jones spanking Tommy, or the whizzing of the sewing machine of that poor girl in the next room. And you must hear them, too—you, who have been so used to the quiet of the country, the music of the sea, and the humming of bees! Yes, it is harder for you, Miss Lorton, than for any of the rest of us; and I often stop in the middle of the cantata and think how you must suffer."

"Then don't think of it again," said Nell cheerfully, "for, indeed, there is no cause to pity me. At first——" She stopped, and her brows knit with the memory of the first few weeks of Beaumont Buildings. "Well, at first it was rather—trying; but after a while one gets used——"

"Used to the infernal—I beg your pardon—the incessant bangings on a piano, and the wailings of Tommy Jones. But you wouldn't complain even if you still suffered as keenly as you did when you first came. I know. Sometimes I feel that I would give ten years of my life if I could hear you say 'Good-by, Mr. Falconer; we are going!' though God knows I—we—should all miss you badly enough."

There came a knock at the door—a soft, dull knock, followed by a rattle of the handle—and a mite of a boy stood in the opening, inhaling the scent of the tea and toast, and gazing wide-eyed at the two occupants of the room.

"Please, mother ses will 'oo lend her free lumps o' sugar, Miss 'Orton; 'cos she've run out."

"Of course I will! And come in, Tommy!" said Nell. "There you are!"

She wrapped half the contents of the sugar basin in a piece of paper and gave it him; then, seeing his eyes fixed wistfully on the pile of buttered toast, she took a couple of slices, arranged them in sandwich fashion, butter side inward, and put them into his chubby and grimy fist. "There you are. And, Tommy, you'll be a good boy, and won't eat any of the sugar, will you?"

"No; I'll be dood, Miss 'Orton. I'll promise I'll be dood."

"Then there's one lump all to yourself!" she said, sticking it into the other fist. "Open the door for him, Mr. Falconer; and don't watch him up the stairs; he'll keep his promise," she added, in a low voice, as she searched for a comparatively clean spot on Tommy's face on which to kiss him.

"Go on—you lucky young beggar!" said Falconer, under his breath, and eying Tommy enviously.

"If you've any pity to waste, spend it on the children," said Nell, with a sigh. "Oh, what would I give to be a fairy, just for one day, and whisk them off to the seaside, into the open fields, anywhere out of Beaumont Buildings. Sometimes, when I see the women drive by in their carriages, with a lap dog on their knees or stuck up beside them, it makes me feel wicked! I want to stick my head out of the window and call put: 'Come up here and fetch some of the children for a drive; I'll take care of the dog while you're gone!' Dick's late!" she broke off; "we'd better begin. Help me wheel the table down to the window."

He attempted to do it by himself, but the color rose to his face and his breath came fast, and Nell insisted on bearing a hand.

"That's better!" she said cheerfully, and ignoring the signs of his weakness. "You can reach the toast——"

He stood by the window, looking down absently and regaining his breath which the effort, slight as it was, had tried.

"There's a brougham stopped at the door," he said. "Doctor, I suppose. No, it's a lady—a fashionable lady. Perhaps she's come to take one of the children for a drive?"

Nell looked out and uttered an exclamation.

"I—I know her," she said, with some agitation. "I'm afraid she's coming here—to see me!"

He moved to the door at once.

"Oh, but stay! Why do you run away?" she exclaimed.

He glanced at his seedy coat with a grave shyness.

"I'll come back if you're mistaken," he said. "Your swell visitor would be rather astonished at my appearance; and I'm afraid there isn't time to get my frock coat out of pawn."

"Don't go!" begged Nell; but he shook his head and left her; and as she heard his step going slowly up the stone stairs, she glanced at the tea, and thought pitifully of the meal he was losing; then she stood by the table and waited, trying to steady the beating of her heart, to assure herself that she had been mistaken; but presently some one knocked, and, opening the door, she saw Lady Wolfer standing before her.

Lady Wolfer drew the slight figure to her and kissed her again and again.

"You wicked girl!" she said, gazing at her with tender reproach. "Aren't you going to let me come in? Why do you stand and look at me with those grave eyes of yours, as if you were sorry to see me? Oh, my dear, my dear!"

"Yes, come in," said Nell, with something like the sigh of resignation.

Lady Wolfer still held her by the arm, and turned her face to the light. There had been a dash of color in it a moment ago, but it had faded, and Lady Wolfer's eyes filled with tears as she noticed the thinness and pallor of the face.

"Nell, Nell! it is wicked of you! I only knew it last night, when we came back. I thought you were at Shorne Mills still! You wrote from there—you said nothing about coming to London."

"That was more than two months ago," said Nell, with a grave smile. "And—and I said nothing because I knew that you—that Lord Wolfer—would want to—to help us. And there was no need—is none."

"No need!" Lady Wolfer looked round the room, listened for a moment to the strains of the piano mingling with the squeals of the children in the house, the yells of those playing in the street, and scented the various odors floating in at the window. "No need! Oh, Nell! isn't it wicked to be so stubborn and so proud? And we knew nothing! We thought that you had enough——"

"So we have," said Nell. "They have been very good to Dick at the works, and he is earning wages, and there—there was some money left—a little—but enough."

"Only enough to permit you to live here! In this prison! Nell, you must let me take you away——"

Nell shook her head, smiling still, but with that "stubborn" expression in her eyes which the other woman remembered.

"And leave Dick!" she said. "No, no! Don't say another word! Call us proud and stiff-necked, if you like—we're not, really—but neither Dick nor I could take anything from any one while we have enough of our own. If we could—if ever we 'run short,' and are in danger of starvation, then——But that won't happen. You don't know how clever Dick is, and how much they think of him at the works! He'll be in directly, with his hands and face all smutty, and famishing for his tea——" She laughed as she fetched another cup. "And you've come just in time. Sit down and leave off staring at me so reproachfully, and tell me all the news."

"No," said Lady Wolfer. "You tell me; yes, tell me all about it, Nell."

Nell smiled as she poured out the tea—the smile which bravely checks the sigh.

"There is not much to tell," she said. "When I got home—to Shorne Mills"—should she never be able to speak the words without a pang?—"I found mamma unwell, very unwell. She was quite changed——"

"That is why she sent for you, of course," said Lady Wolfer. "Nell, why did you go without seeing me, without saying good-by?"

"I had to leave at once," said Nell timidly, and fighting with her rising color.

"That day! I shall never forget it," said Lady Wolfer softly, and looking straight before her. "Yes, I have something to tell you, dear. But go on."

"Mamma was ill; but I was not frightened—not at first. She was always an invalid, you know, and I thought that she would get better. But she did not; she got weaker every day, and——" The tears came to her eyes, and she turned away to the fire for a moment. "Molly and I nursed her. Molly was our servant, and like a friend indeed, and the parting with her——She did not suffer much, and she was so patient, so changed. She was like a child at last; she could not bear me to leave her. I used to think that she—she was not very fond of me; but—but all that was changed before she died, and she grew to like me as much as she liked Dick. He had always been her favorite. To the last she did not think she was going to die, and—and—the evening before she went we"—she laughed, the laugh so near akin to tears—"we cut out a paper pattern for a new dress for her—one of your patterns."

"My poor Nell!" murmured Lady Wolfer.

"Then she died; and the Bardsleys offered Dick a situation—it was very kind and unusual, Dick says, and he cannot quite understand it even now—and, of course, we had to come to London——"

She stopped, and Lady Wolfer looked round and out of the window.

"No; we had to live in London, to be near the works, you know. We are very comfortable and happy."

"My poor Nell!"

"Oh, but don't pity us," said Nell, smiling. "You don't know how jolly we are, and how full of amusement our life is. We even go to the theater sometimes, and sometimes Dick brings a friend home to tea; and there are friends here in the Buildings—one has just left me. And Dick is going to be a great man, and rich and famous. Oh, there is not a doubt about it. Though Beaumont Buildings are pretty large, we have several castles in the air quite as big. And now tell me—about yourself," she broke off suddenly, and with a touch of embarrassment. "You are looking very well; yes, and younger; and your hair is long; and what a swell you are!"

"Am I?" said Lady Wolfer, in a low voice, and smiling softly. "I am glad. Nell, while you have been in such trouble—my poor, dear Nell!—I have been so happy. How can I tell you? I feel so ashamed." Her face grew crimson, and she looked down as if smitten with shame; then she raised her eyes. "It began—my happiness, I mean—the day you left us. Do you remember the night before, and—and the wild, wicked words I spoke to you?"

Nell nodded slightly, and bent over the tea things.

"I was mad that night—reckless and desperate. I—I thought that my husband didn't care for me."

Nell shook her head.

"Yes; you said I was wrong—that it was all a mistake. How did you know, dear? But I did not believe you; and I—I thought—God forgive me!—that I owed it to the man who did love me—that other. Nell, I cannot bear to speak his name now—now that all is altered! I thought that I was bound to go away with him! He had asked me—implored me more than once. I knew that he would ask me again, and soon, and—and I should have yielded!"

"No, no!" said Nell, going round to her, and putting her arms round her.

"Yes, ah, yes, I should!" said Lady Wolfer. "I had made up my mind. I was reckless and desperate. That very morning I had decided to go, whenever he asked me; and that very morning, quite early, while I was dressing, my husband came to me, and—Nell, you were right, though even now I cannot guess how you knew."

"Spectators see more of the game, dear," said Nell softly.

"And in a moment everything was changed; and I knew the truth—that he loved me—had loved me from the first. We had both been blind. But I was the worst; for I, being a woman, ought to have seen that his coldness was only the screen which his pride erected between his heart and the woman whom he thought had only married him for position. We went away together that day—our real honeymoon. Forgive me, Nell, if—if I almost forgot you! Happiness makes us selfish, dear! But I did not forget you for long. And he—Nell, why does he always speak of you as if he owed you something——"

She broke off, looking at Nell with a puzzled air.

Nell smiled enigmatically, but said nothing.

"Nell, dear, he bade me bring you back with me."

Nell shook her head.

"You will not? But you will come and stay with us; you will bring your brother? Make your home with us while we are in town, at any rate, dear. Ah, don't be stubborn, Nell! Somehow, I feel as if—as if I owed my new happiness to you—that's strange, isn't it? But it is so. And you will come?"

But Nell was wise in her generation, and remained firm.

"I must stay with Dick," she said. "We are all and all to each other. But you shall come and see me sometimes, if you will promise to be good, and not try and persuade me into leaving that sphere in which the Fates have placed me."

Lady Wolfer sighed.

"You little mule! You always had your own way while you were at Wolfer House, and I see you haven't changed. But I give you fair warning, Nell, that one day I shall take you at your weakest, and bear you away from this—this awful place! It is not fitting that you should be here! Dear, don't forget that you are a relation of mine!"

"A poor relation," said Nell, laughing softly. "And, like all poor relations, to be kept at a proper distance. Go now, dear; that coachman of yours is getting anxious about his horses."

Lady Wolfer pleaded hard, but Nell remained firm.

Her ladyship was welcome to visit at Beaumont Buildings as often as she chose, but Beaumont Buildings would keep itself to itself; and, at last, her brougham drove away.

It had scarcely turned the corner before Falconer knocked at the Lortons' door.

"Gone!" he said.

"Yes, quite gone," said Nell cheerfully, but thoughtfully. "Come and have your tea; and I'll have another cup."

He sat down at the table. Tea is a serious meal at Beaumont Buildings, and is eaten at the table, not in chairs scattered over the room. But Falconer set his cup down at the first sip and pushed his plate away.

"I know the sequel of this comedy," he said.

"What do you mean?" asked Nell, staring at him.

"Enter swell friend. 'Found at last! Ah, leave this abode of poverty and squalor. Come with me!' and the heroine goeth."

Nell laughed.

"How foolish you are, Mr. Falconer! The heroine—if you mean me—does not 'goeth,' but remains where she is."

"Do you mean it?" he asked, the color rising to his pale face.

"Yes," she said, with a cheerful nod.

"Then pass the toast," he said. "I breathe again, and tea is possible. But she wanted you to go? Don't deny it!"

Nell's pale face flushed.

"Yes. She wanted me to go; but I would not. I am going to remain at Beaumont Buildings," said Nell resolutely.

As she spoke, the door opened, and Dick entered quickly. His face and hands were smudgy, but his eyes were bright in their rings of smoke and smut.

"Hallo, Nell; hallo, Falconer!" he cried. "Eaten all the tea? Hope not, for I'm famishing. Nell, I've got some news for you—wait till I've cleaned myself."

"No, you don't!" said Falconer, catching him by the arm. "What is it?"

"Oh, not much. Only there's a chance of our leaving these beastly Buildings. I've got to go down to a place in the country to manage some water works, and install the electric light."

Falconer's face fell for a moment, then he smiled cheerfully.

"Congratulations, old fellow!" he said. "When do you go?"

"Oh, in about a fortnight. That's what kept me late. Think of it! The country, Nellakins! Jump for joy, but don't upset the tea things!"

"Where is it, Dick?" she asked, as he went to the door.

"At a place called Anglemere. One of the ancestral halls, don't you know. 'Historic Castles of England' kind of place."

"Anglemere?" said Nell, wrinkling her brows. "I seem to remember it."