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Aye, its that Tom Hinton," returned Crump; " he does love to have a hit at Steyne. But how he found it out beats me; for I never asked him, be sure ; and he could ha' said it but to bother him."

"Serve him right, too!" said the good man to himself: "I'd ha' been on to him before now myself, if it hadn't been for hurting her. Eh, but she looks worse and worse; he must have a heart, he must! But there, Crichton has him under's thumb, somehow ; that's certain!"

That day's receipts made up the rent, put a pair of shoes on the poor little feet which had been all but bare; but with that task her last strength was expended.

Philip," she said the next evening, "I must go to bed, my boy; and if Mr. Crump comes, thank him, but tell him mother can do no more. Mind Rose, dear, and get your tea; it is in the cupboard."

She would have no one sent for; she was not ill, she said, "only weak."

Her boy brought her tea and toast; no hand of experienced cook or nurse could have prepared them better; it grieved her that she could not take them. Little Rose followed on tiptoe with flowers, her favorite "bue fower ;" and whispered, "my Phil," might she stay? The sun set, its warm rays filled the room; twilight fell-little Rose went to bed; then, after much bidding, Philip said good-night. Midnight came, and still alone the wakeful woman lay. Then came a step, in at the door, up the stairs, and stumbled at the top

"Hey! holloa! what's this? Why, Philip, boy, what are you doing here ?"

"Oh! father, had I-oh, I'd fallen asleep. Mother is ill, father, and I thought she'd want me."

"Ill, is she? Well go to bed now, or you'll be the next ill."

He did not enter the room any too softly, but she did not seem to be disturbed.

Hey! dear me! dear me!" sighed the man, commiserating himself, the object of so many trials. He was soon asleep; and did not awake till Philip and Rose came with mother's breakfast in the morning.

Breakfasts, dinners, and suppers,—where they came from, during the weary time she lay "only weak," it would have puzzled any one to tell who had troubled to think about it. Philip could have told, so could Mr. Crump; of whom the quondam angel' about this period waxed suspicious, dealing in broad inuendoes, and to her gossips dilating upon the depth and general depravity of men; more especially such as all at once claimed for themselves the earnings of overhours— pocket money, indeed!"

Once in a while some neighbour would come in to inquire after Mrs. Steyne, to make her bed, or assist in some small matter; but she made so little complaint, and varied so much, that they thought little of her illness, she would soon get round; so said her husband.

One evening Philip sat alone by her bedside-she had been worse the past day or two. "Where is Rose?" she asked-" she was not here last evening; you should not leave her alone, dear."

Philip muttered something about looking for her; he left the room, and went into the garden. He crept in some time after; his mother had dozed, and when she awoke again it was past Rose's bed-time.

The next evening the boy sat with his book upon

the stairs, but he was not reading, when his mother knocked at the bedside.

"Come and sit with me, you and Rose," she said; 66 come, both of you."

Philip came slowly; his mother asked again where was Rose?-No answer.

She raised herself, and looked at Philip; he was crying.

"Philip! tell me, this instant-where is your sister?" "Oh, mother! I couldn't tell you, I couldn't-father has taken her with him."

"Where !—where, child?"

"To the public-house, mother; he takes her in the evenings I couldn't tell you!-oh, mother, don't!"

She had stepped out upon the floor, and was hurrying on her things; she had not left her bed for days; and she looked so pale and ghastly, that he trembled and cried out, putting his arms about her.

"In a public-house !-a public-house!"-she said, as with inspired strength she hurried down the stairs, and out of the house. Philip ran, crying with terror, but he could not keep up with her. As he gained the brow of the hill, she disappeared within the doors of "The Crichton."

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

TWILIGHT AND DAWN.-LEVANA AND SILENUS.

"Our feelings and our thoughts,

Tend ever on, and rest not in the present;
As drops of rain fall into some dark well,
And from below comes a scarce audible sound..
So fall our thoughts into the dark hereafter,
And their mysterious echo answers us."

LONGFELLOW.

"'Mid leafy glades, where shadows come and go,
So in Life's chequered phantasy,

Quick follow joy and woe."

ANON.

SHE passed swiftly through the bar, and up the stairs; almost unseen by the drinkers lounging at the tap and was in the room above, ere Philip had come to the outer door.

up

:

The music had ceased; the applause, ringing through the room, covered her abrupt entrance, and she was in their midst before they were aware of her.

Awe-stricken by the sudden apparition of that tall and pallid figure, the voices were hushed in a moment; they fell back, and the little dancer remained alone, flushed and exultant, her eyes sparkling, and her golden hair all disordered.

Too quickly the mother understood all, and, darting forward, would have caught the child in her arms; but she, with a cry of terror, sprang to her father's

knee, and clung to him, looking up in affright at the wild and haggard features of her other parent.

With an exclamation of grief, too intense for words, the woman again threw her arms around her; but she struggled, and, bursting into tears, cried, "Father! my father! I won't go with you; I will have my father!-"

"He meanwhile sat, in stupified amazement, and offered no interference, till Rose, again freeing herself, darted into his arms.

"I love my father, I will stop along of him! I won't go with you!" she cried, clinging round him; and some of the bystanders, drawing near, separated the miserable mother from them.

"For God's sake let her come!" she cried, clasping her hands; "if you will ruin yourself, at least leave me my child! George! George! have mercy on her and me! My little child, my Rose! come with me, darling!-give her to me-for mercy's sake give her to me! Don't break my heart quite, George!”

The owner of the ring and corkscrews had, at the beginning of the scene, slipped from the room, and now returned, accompanied by Crichton, who came up to Harriette, and laid his hand softly upon her arm.

"Now, my good lady, no noise here, you know-if you please. A disturbance in my house is a thing I never by any chance allow. What! Mrs. Steyne! I should not have believed it, really—"

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My child!-I will have her! You shall not keep her in this horrid place, among you! Give her to me! give her to me, and I will go."

My dear Ma'am," expostulated blandly he of the corkscrews, "you see the child does not want to