It was a beautiful afternoon in the middle of June, and the London season was at its height. Everyone who was anybody of importance was now in town. Sweet, fresh-looking girls, in the full enjoyment of their first season, were cantering by, gaily chattering in the Row, their faces glowing with excitement and pleasure as they caught sight of some pedestrian acquaintances and nodded their greetings. Stately old dowagers were enjoying to the full the bright sunshine, as they lay comfortably back in their well-padded broughams. Here were brilliantly apparelled men and women, the very butterflies of London society, talking of the events of yesterday, and speculating on the evening's entertainment, as they walked leisurely up and down the broad promenade of the Park. But near, and almost touching the skirts of these favored ones, ran an undercurrent of poverty, distress and misery. So close allied were the two streams of human life, that scarce an arm's length divided them.

Here and there, just outside the Park gates, were pale, emaciated women and young girls, in whom was left no youth, for in truth their hard lives had served to age them before their time. With thin, white hands they stretched out their offerings of flowers to sell the passer-by—bright spring flowers—crocuses, daffodils and violets, whose freshness and purity served only to enhance the miserable aspect of their vendors. In verity it was a scene of velvet and rags, satin and sackcloth, riches and poverty: Lazarus looking longingly at Dives, and Dives going on his way unheeding.

At the marble arch entrance to the Park there stood this afternoon a tall, rather melancholy looking man, dressed in deep mourning. He was watching, with apparently little interest, the busy throng about them. From time to time he lifted his hat in a mechanical manner as he recognized some acquaintance, but there was nothing enthusiastic in his greetings. He had been standing at the entrance for about half-an-hour, when he was roused from his state of abstraction by a tremendous slap on the back, and a sturdy voice, which said:

"Hello! McAllister, old boy, how are you? Why are you star-gazing here? Wake up, old boy, wake up!"

"Oh! Jack, how are you?" said McAllister, for he it was, turning round sharply. "I'm glad to see you. I thought you were in France."

"Well, so I was, but the fellow I went with couldn't speak a word of French, and you know I can't. We started on this walking tour through the Pyrenees, where no English is spoken. The consequence was that we were nearly starved—couldn't make the people understand. I got tired of making signs, as if I were a deaf mute, so I just turned back and came home, and here I am."

"How are Lady Severn and Miss Elsie?"

"Both very well, thank you. Elsie is enjoying her season thoroughly. I never saw such a girl before in my life. She is out morning, noon and night. I declare she tires me out, and I can't begin to keep pace with her. One ball at nine, another at ten; rush, rush, all the time, it is terrible. She has the constitution of a horse, I believe."

"Not very complimentary to Miss Elsie," said NoËl laughing.

"True, nevertheless. I say, McAllister, you look very glum. What is the matter with you? Oh! ah! I beg your pardon, I—I——What an ass I am, always putting my foot into it. Pray forgive me."

"Yes," said NoËl, "it was very sad. You know, Lady Margaret always would drive those ponies; we could not prevent her. She was determined to break them in, and, when she decided on a thing, she always carried her point. That morning, she drove to the Glen; the precipice there is very steep, and something frightened the ponies, and—and you know the rest."

"Yes, yes," said Jack shuddering, "I heard it all. I am very sorry for you, old boy. Lady Margaret was very kind to me. She used to scold me occasionally, but I expect I deserved it. No, no, don't talk about it any more. You must cheer up, old boy. Come with me to the opera to-night. Mademoiselle Laurentia is going to sing in 'Aida.'"

"Mademoiselle Laurentia?"

"Yes, don't you remember her? She was up at Mount Severn last autumn."

"Oh, yes! I remember her well enough; but, Jack, I can't go to the opera, much as I should like it. You see it would not look well," touching the crape band on his hat.

"No, no, of course not," said Jack hurriedly; "pray pardon me, how stupid I am; but I know what we can do. I have tickets for a conversazione at the Academy to-morrow—there can be no harm in your going to that. I hear there are some very good things at the Academy this year."

"Yes, so I heard, I have not been there yet."

"Every one is in ecstasies over a painting by a man called Lacroix; they say it's the best thing that has been on view for a long time."

"What! painted by a man called EugÈne Lacroix? Does he come from Father Point?"

"Yes. My dear McAllister, you Canadians are having it all your own way in London this year. Whether it is this Colonial Exhibition, or whether you are all extremely gifted people, I don't know."

"What is EugÈne Lacroix like?" asked The McAllister. "I used to know him a long time ago. He was a quiet sort of man then."

"He is quiet yet. He won't go out anywhere, but works, works all the time. Sometimes he comes to tea at my mother's on Sunday afternoon, but that is the only time we see anything of him. Mademoiselle Laurentia introduced him to us. All the Academy people speak well of him, strange to say, for he is a foreigner, and they are prejudiced against outsiders, as a rule. He has had several things hung at the Salon in Paris, and a head he painted of Mademoiselle Laurentia made a great hit last spring. But, old boy, I must be going now, I've got to take Elsie to a dinner party to-night. Fearful bore, but when duty calls me, I always obey. You'll come with me to-morrow, eh? Then just drive round to the house at two o'clock sharp. Au revoir."

"Stop a moment, Jack. Can you give me Mademoiselle Laurentia's address?"

"Yes, certainly, Number 17, The Grove Highgate. Are you going to see her? It always struck me that you and she didn't get on very well last autumn at Mount Severn."

"Did it strike you in that way?"

"Yes, it did, and I couldn't help noticing that whenever you came in one door she seemed to go out of the other; in fact, old boy, I'm sure she didn't like you much."

"Are you?"

"Yes, and Elsie thought just as I do."

"Indeed, you are wonderfully observant, Jack. I did not credit you with such powers of perspicacity."

"I don't know what you mean by that, but I can see through a stone wall as well as any one else, though I was always very stupid at school."

"Well, perhaps what you say may be true, Jack, but I'm going to call on Mademoiselle Laurentia. You know we Canadians are very patriotic."

"I admire you for your forgiving disposition. If you really want to see Mademoiselle Laurentia, the only time to catch her in is between five and six. Good-bye, old fellow, I must be off. Don't forget to-morrow at two o'clock sharp."

After Jack went, McAllister hesitated for a moment, then glanced at his watch, hailed a passing hansom, jumped in, and called out to the driver, "Go to 17, The Grove, Highgate. A sovereign if you get there before six o'clock."

The cabman shook his head doubtfully and said, "I'll try my best, sir, but I'm afraid I can't do it. It's a long way off, you know."

He did try his best at any rate, and off they went at break-neck speed, on! on! on! past rows and rows of houses, past wildernesses of brick and mortar. Far behind them they left churches, hospitals, buildings innumerable, the mansions of the rich and the wretched dwellings of the poor, the squalid habitations of outcast London, on! on! on! Up the great hill of Highgate, where the tender green foliage of early summer and of the great oak trees bordered the roadside, and where the almond blossoms perfumed all the heated air with a subtle delicate fragrance, on! on! on!

Quickly they dashed past many an historic spot, past the house where Coleridge lived, past the walls of the great cemetery, which contains the ashes of hundreds of illustrious dead, past the little church, perched on the summit of the hill, from whose belfry could be heard the chimes for evensong, coming faintly on the still air; on! on! on!

But it is a long lane that has no turning, and at length the hansom drew up before a little cottage far back from the road. A long porch of lattice-work led up to the front door, and tall elm trees shaded the little garden. It was a pleasant enough little abode on the outside at any rate, sheltered from the noise and bustle of the great city.

"No. 17, The Grove, sir," called out the cabman, breathless, but triumphant, "and it's only five minutes to six."

"Well done," said McAllister, "here's your well-earned sovereign. Now take your horse to the stables over there and wait for me."

The cabman departed radiant, wondering over such unwonted generosity, and musing as to the rank and wealth of his fare.

McAllister knocked at the door of the cottage, and presently it was opened by a neat maid-servant, who, in answer to his inquiry, said:

"I am afraid, sir, Mademoiselle Laurentia will not be able to see you. What name shall I say, please, sir?"

"Oh, say I'm a Canadian. I have no cards with me; but I have come on a matter of the utmost importance, and I must see your mistress."

"Very well, sir; please walk up this way," and the maid led the way to Mademoiselle Laurentia's boudoir.

It was a dainty little room furnished in blue and silver. On the walls hung numerous water-colors and engravings, showing that the prima donna had an artistic eye.

McAllister had not long to wait before the mistress of the house came in. She was dressed for her part in "Aida," and wore an Egyptian robe of soft white cashmere, embroidered in dull gold silk with a quaint conventional pattern. Her gown was slightly open at the throat, round which was a necklace of dull gold beads. Heavy bracelets of the same material encircled her arms, and a row of them held back her dark brown hair, which fell in heavy masses far below her knees.

She came into the room with her hands stretched out in welcome, but at the sight of McAllister drew back looking surprised.

"How do you do, Mr. McAllister," she said, in a formal tone. "This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. Pray pardon my theatrical dress, but I have such a long drive into town that I am obliged to dress early."

"Certainly, Marie; your dress is very becoming; in fact, you look altogether charming."

"Mr. McAllister, before you speak again, I think I may tell you that once before I have had to remind you that only to my most intimate friends am I known as Marie Gourdon."

"Am I not your friend? I have known you all your life."

"I do not wish to continue that subject; and pardon me, Mr. McAllister, if I seem rude, but it is now past six o'clock, and I must leave here in twenty minutes. It is a long drive into town, and I must be at the opera on time."

"I have something very important to say to you. My wife is dead."

"What! Lady Margaret dead? I am really very sorry to hear that. She was always very kind to me. Poor Lady Margaret."

"And do you know, Marie, what her death means to me?"

"No, I don't quite follow you, Mr. McAllister. You say your wife is dead, I suppose you mean she is dead."

"Yes, yes, of course," replied NoËl irritably, "but it means more. It means that I am free."

"Free! What do you mean?"

"Marie, can you ask me that? Can you pretend not to understand? For the last ten years my life has been a burden to me. The thought of you has ever been with me. The memories of Father Point, of the happy days spent there, haunt me always. And now, Marie, I have come to tell you that Dunmorton is yours, the Glen is yours, all that I have is yours, and Marie I am yours."

During this outburst Marie Gourdon's face grew at first crimson, then very white, and for a moment she did not answer; then she rose from her chair, and, looking straight at The McAllister, said in a very quiet tone, without the faintest touch of anger in it:

"NoËl McAllister, you are strangely mistaken in me. Do you think I am exactly the same person I was ten years ago? Do you think I am the same little country girl whose heart you won so easily and threw aside when better prospects offered?"

"Marie, it was you who bade me go."

"Yes, I bade you go. What else could I do? I saw you wished to be free. I saw that my feelings, yes—if you will have the truth—my love for you weighed as nothing in the scale against your newly-found fortune. I saw you waver, hesitate. I did not hesitate. And now I am rich, I am famous, you come to me. You offer me that worthless thing,—your love. When I was poor, struggling alone, friendless, did you even write to me? Did you by word or look recognize me? No! The farce is played out. I wonder at your coming to see me after all."

"Marie, listen; a word——"

"No, not one word, NoËl McAllister. I have said all I shall ever say to you. Dunmorton, the Glen, all your possessions are very fine things, but there are others I value infinitely more. Dear me! is that half-past six striking? I believe I hear the carriage at the door. I must beg of you to excuse me. You know my duties are pressing, and managers wait for no one. Good-evening, Mr. McAllister."