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155w“, Ix)pr m Dluulufi, \leAl-IAJ M y . , . u v . . . _ fiance, looking as lizily handsome as ever. Kate Rolleston is luooking at me. I wonder if she would like very mu‘ch no ,change places with me, and if half at least of Olive’s suspicion about her and Gerard Baxter is true? Perhaps Katie has lost her heart to this artist-friend of her brother‘s, though, according to Mrs. Wauchope, Mr. Baxter does not care for young ladies. I am puzzling over Kwtie’s steadfast look. and wondering how it has happened that. among: all our common friends, nobody has ever told Gerard Bax-her who I am, when ‘Tann- hauser” comes to an end. and I rise from my seat, Blumenthalu's "Bend of the River" being next. on the programme. “You practice a great deal?" Mr, Bax- ter observes, as he 03ers me his arm again" «. '1’ ma‘ I amuse myself by looking for my own ,articular friends in the crowd. Olive i5‘ in a, corner flirting with Jack Rol- Lesbon, >Poppy is sijgtiyg ‘calngly beside her wan“.- “Yes,” I answer, smiling, as I met, his splendid dark eyes. “I hope it does not annoy you." "No; Mrs. Wauchone will tell you than: I have never been so industrious as since you came to Carlton Street.” "I am gla dbo hear it,” I venture, somewhat soberly. “If I had your tal- enthI should certainly not. let it be cum I, DAIUu‘u \4 uuuuuuu ., .<_~ "V idle.” “I mean to work very hard now," he says quickly. “Before. I did not care very much whether I made a name for myself or not. But nowâ€"I do!” "So he thinks I spend my time 'drum-l ming away on this unfortunate instru-i ment with the ultimate object of earning: my livelihood?" I laugh, sitting before the piano in Mrs. Wauchope’s drawmg- room on the morning after Madame Cronhelm‘s soiree musicale. j‘He thinks am a penniless art-student like lums_e1f. ound to earn my bread by whatever talent I possess, unless I preferfio slt down and starve. What a joke it is, and how Olive will enjoy it! And how Aunt Rosa's stiff gray curls would bristle With horror if she knew that her niece Allie Somers Scott of Woodhay was taken for a poor young woman from the country who had come up to these cheap furnish- ed lodgings for the purpose of studying vocal music for the stage!” The idea is too delicious! I laugh to myself with such frantic enjoyment that, if Mary Anne had chanced to come into the room, she would have set me down either as an idiot or as some harmless kind of lunatic. I shall not-tell Mr. Baxter the mistake he has madeâ€"since no one has thought of telling him before. I hope they will not tell him now. They must take it for granted that he knows who I am, and he must have thonght no questions necessary, seeing for himself my mode of life. As for Mrs. Wauchope, she probably still labors under the de- lusion that the Count and the “draw- ing-rooms" have never yet encountered each other here or anywhere else. Mr. Baxter must think the Deanes and Rolâ€" lestons have been very kind in taking me up; but then he knows them to be fond of art and artistic people, especially the Rollestons, and likely enough to make much of me for the sake of my voice. What fun it is to think of myself as working for my living! What fun it will be to keep up the delusion with the help of my scampish friend Olive, who loves uo_thing so_much as a practicaljoke! But my fun is put a stop to in a very summary manner. While I am sitting here at the piano, a note from Olive is put, into my hand to say that Ellinor has scarlet fever. and 1hat, I am not to attempt to come near the housel All the others have had it, and are not. afraid, but Mrs. Deane will not allow them to come near mevI must not expect even to see Olive at Madame Cronhelm‘s mo-day, as her mother does not think it would be right to How her to go there out, of an infected ouse. I am very sorry, not only for my own sake, but for Ellinor and all of them. I write a note to Olive, and have just made up my mind not to go out at all this morning, when Ada Rolleston comes run- ning in with an urgent request that I would come over and spend the day in Berkeley Street, which I am rather un- villin‘ to do, but ‘ghich Ada persuades me in doing in t 0 end. During the next five or six days I spend most of my time with the Rollestons. Ada pets me and spoils me very Inuch, in the fashion of Olive Deane, who has “fagged” for me since we were children together. The house in Berkeley Street is a Very pleasant onéwtliere are always visitors coming and goingrelever peo- ple, poets, painters, artists, and literary men and women. We are never at a loss for amusement, between the preparations for the fancy ball, Jack's amateur (studio and the great music-room where their mu. 810a,] friends would willingly play sym- phonies and fantasies all day long‘, if th_ey eole finq any one to listen to theni. I meet Mr. Baxter there very often-in fact, I may say every day. I do not think he can be working very hardâ€"unless he paints by 1amplightâ€"he is always with Jack Rolleston, smoking in his studio or chatting to us in the, drawingmoom. He even stays to dinner sometimesâ€"I know it because they insist upon my dining there once or twice, and, when I dine there, he dines there too. They laugh at me about. himâ€"of course, girls laugh at each other for very littievand call him my handsome sweetheart. But I do not flirt with him, though he manages some- how to bo always in my neighborhood, and I cannot help knowing "that he is al- mgst always looking at me. '7‘6Afirthgtâ€"j’wié says, laying down his palette and brushes. “is a poor chi‘r‘ who sue to me- as a. modelâ€"41M name is White! I sun going home on the second of April, to come up to town again for Poppy's wedding. unless it is postponed on account of Ellinor's illness. Olive, who writes to me almost every day, sayH they are thinking of going to Brighton as soon as Ellinor is strong enough to travel, and I should not be surprised if Poppy’s wedding took place from there. The prospect of seeing Woodhay so soon does not fill me with unmixed delight. Something has thrown a. glamor over Mrs. Wanchope's shabby furnished lodgings, which my own beautiful Manor has nev- er knownv‘n light that never was on land or sea" illumines these dusty rooms. a "glory and a freshness and a dream.” in which I walk like one who “on a moun- tain takes the .rlawn.” I am so happy, and yet 1 cannot- say what. has made me hm». One day the Rollestons take me to see the studio of an artist of whose pictures I have heardâ€"a man who very often comes to Berkeley Street, and who, gaunt and gray and disheveled as he is. is one of the “lions” of the day. As we go up 1.lie stairs leading to the studio, we meet a girl coming downâ€"a young girl, poor- ly dressed, but with a face of such ox- traordinary beauty that it absolutely dazzles me, I had never dreamed that a human face could be so lovely, and Mrs. lmlleston, who has also been struck by it makes the same remark to the great paiiiter himself. . ‘ . (CHAPTE‘R Illâ€"(Cont'd) OR, THE MEMORY OF A BOY WITH DARK EYES. ' SEVERE TRIAL; CHAPTER, IV. Her mother is a wretched woman, always begging#sometimes drunk. Here is her pigturjeâ€"yps, it‘is a lovely face.” _L L-,: 1mm“ lJluuuAv un, .v .u .5 He has turned a canVa‘Bvlilvhiéli had been standing with its face to the wall, and we are loolxing again at. 13}? ml we meet n,.,_1_ "v Luv . “a “a”... .H r 7 -m on the stairs. There are the pure Greek outlines which Phidias might have wor- shippedâ€"the tangled red‘gold hair tossed back from the white .forehead, glittering like a halo round the angelic head, the dark blue velvety eyes, the exquisite smil- ing lips4 The great artist had‘ painted her in rags, selling violets. She is hold- ing out a bunch in one small slender hand, as she leans against the pillar of some great portico, looking out of the canvas with thpse innocent wigtful e'yes. I stand before the picture for a long time. studying that girl's face. I envy her, though she is in rags and I am wearing a dress of steel-gray velvet with a bon- net of the same, whose cost I scarcely care to remember. How happy she ought to be with a. face like that? What mat- ter about cold and hunger, and rags, if one could smile on the beholder with those ethereal eyes, with those exquisite childish lips! So I think, looking down at the lifeless canvas. And as I look a. shiver runs through my veins, as though a. door had opened somewhere, letting in a breath of some cold outer air It is a curious sensationâ€"I have heard of peo- ple feeling the like when one walked over their grave that was to be. Yet why should this girl's face make me shiver? It is as beautiful as the face of an an- gel, and as innocentâ€"it is not very likely that it should ever do me any harm! This evening the Rollestons insist upon sending their carriage to take me back to Berkeley Street to dinner. I should have spent a lovely evening if I had not gone, and yet I go rather unwillingly, having had a pile of letters from Wood- hay and Yattenden in the morning, which I have not yet had time to read. But the temptation to spend the evening in that pleasant house is too strong to re- sis â€"-against my better judgment I allow myself to be persuaded, and seven o'clock finds me in the drawing-room at Berke- ley Street; and. as usual, I find Mr. Bax- ter there before me. "I “don’t Vtrfiirnk you are working very hard,” I say no hlm in the course of the evemng. V think we have both been rather idle lately," he retorts, with his boyish smile. “I have been here every day~â€"I have no time 17,07 practice.” “A3151 ‘Hase Béén here every dayâ€"I have no _time_ to paint.” “But how are you to make this great name for yourself if you do not work?” “And you?" he suggests, laughing. “Oh, I am not in any great hurry to make a name for myself!" “I am glad to flear it. I hope you will never make a name for yourself at all.’ “Thank you!” “I mean that I hope you will never make thqpflvoicq of yours public property.” "Let some man work for you," he says hurriedly, his boyish face flushing like a girl‘s. “Give some man the chanee of making a name for himselfifor your "-‘IWh'd’thtrhenr ius to be‘éome of 1112:?" i ask, with laudable gravity. A sake!” I shake my head gravely, looking out into the twilight. We are standing at. an open window at the upper end of the long music-room. All the rest of the party are clustered round the piano at the lower end, Where some music-mad friend of Crauford’s is playing Berlioz's j‘Symphonic Fantastiquei‘ ‘zl‘hesefl are gill in a warm glow of candle-light from the lights on the piano, but we, standing at this distant window, are illumined only by the low glimmer from a faint clear appleâ€"green sky against which the houses stand up picturesquely dark and indie- tinct, and in which, just above the sha- dowy chimney-tops, burns one great red lovely star. “Miss Scott, do you think the man you marry will ever allow you to sing on th}; stage?" His voice startles me, low and quietly as the words are spoken. I look up at the tall dark figure, indistinct in the twilight; and suddenly this boy, with his beautiful eyes, his desperate poverty. his passionate pride. seems to take me by the hand and lead me into some “faery-land forlorn” of which I have never dreamed in fall my life before. 7 "17721701151; think about it,” I answer with truth. "Miss Scott, will you‘ marry me?" This question takes me so entirely by surprige that. it conveys no meaning to my mind. “Allie, will you marry me, and give me the fight to rwork for you?”_ 1 look up into the eager dark eyes of the lad who is so eager to work for me, but who cannot or will not work for himself. “You with a wife!" I exclaim, with a cruel smllc. "It seems to me to be as mu_ch _z_15 you - 1 £01111)3.ssâ€"â€"” "To live ~myself. Youâ€"are very bit’tpr; I think you take a pleasure in hurtmg me:I think yqu _always_di_d_!.” : “Forgive me,’ I say, holding out my hand; it looks very white and slim in the half light, as I am sure I look my- self in my faint white clinging gown. “It was kind of you to wish to help me in the only way you couldâ€"A" “Kind!” he interrupts passionately, ml“. ing the hand I have ofl'ered to him and daring to press his warm young lips against it. "I am kind to you, Allie, if you call it kind to love you with all me strgngth of my hearp and mud!” “But you have only known me for so short a time,” I say, drawng my hand away coldly. “You can know LOghing about me“' “I know That I love youâ€"'1 know that I have loved you since the very first. ev- ening I met you here. I believe l 1911 in love with your voice before I wur saw you, though Mrs. Wauchope thought she nipped any danger of that kind so .:l>.v- erly in the bud;” and he laughs a little -â€"the old boyish laugh. I think of we violets and am silent, looking at that great solitary star, at the hmses stand- ing up black against the gold-green sky. The quaint fantastic music of the Sym- phonic fills the room, the group zoom the piano listen to it eagerly, with the light full on their preoccupied lace-a; only we two are alone together in ihe :mlight window, two tall shadows against the faint clear sadness of the sky. “We should be poor, Allie,- but, if we cared for each other, that would not matter. And I would work so hard for youâ€"I would work day and night I? be- come famous for your sake~â€"n:xt.117‘ng would be too hard for me with such a. «hqpe as»L11at."_ he looks as if he could “pile him a pa~ lace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved” as he stands there, so young and strong and full of life and hope. "But. what fools people would think us!" I say, smiling. and wondering what he will say when he hears the truth about "Should we care far that?" he GT‘leLliilR, with scornful (lax-l; eye-s. “If we were lwnny, we should care very little what other people said. We are 39%.. MM, A» uvuvu‘y u u...“ Perhaps my silence says “what I would never swear," for he comes nearer to me. bending his dark head to look into my eyes. as he did once before.in this very room, when we quarrelecl about. a, bunch of withered A yielets. * t L Could I? Can 1? He takes me in his arms, he kisses me passionately, and I. Allie Scott of Woodhay, submit to it with an amazed docility which I could not; have believed possible a. fortnight ago. And so we stand for “one vast moment.” of intolerable happiness; and then, with a laugh which ends in a sigh, I push him away frrorm _me: __ and if we choose to be poor together, it isnnorbody’s bus_i_ness but. oyr‘rm-vn." 1 gnns 0| vuyucrcu nude-a. ( “Alhe, couldn’t you "care for‘ me enough to flay your sweet hands in mine and trust to me’?” “Oh, this is folly!” I exclaim, with ra- ther tardy wisdom, it must be confess- ed. “We are mad to think of such a. thing for a. minute. You have nothing. and yet you want to burden yourself with a. wife whose only mode of earn- ingwher Vlnivin‘g you condemn!” _. 2A- 1.-.. “:5 nun. “v... v... "V..V.-._7. ,, . “My wife shall never sing for her bread!” the boys says, throwing up his head. “Then how do you propose to live?” “I shall live by my art.” “But you must. practice your art be- fore you can live by it.” “And I intend Iquractice it." “You are very confident,” I say. gaz» ing into the eyes which look dark as night under their black lashes. “But sup- pose you should not succeed?” “I shall succeed.” “But you seem to me to be more anxi- cue to bewilder by audacious originality than to conquer by sober work," I say deliberately "And if “I shall to work." “I cannot be conventional!” he exclaims, frowning a little. “I have my own ideas about choice of subject and manner of dealing with it, and I shall adopt the ideas of no either man livigig.” 1"‘But your iii-ea may not filgase the pub- 10." “If the public cannot understand me, it is their own loss.” "And, meanwhile, you and those be- longing to you may starve." ‘ He is Silent, looking down at, meâ€"at the girl in the long pale gown who dares to stand there and call not only his own steadfastness of purpose in question, but the_pripcip185 of his art: .1 “‘4” L.‘ gnunfly.-.“ V- n... .. :‘Truth must. conquern'in the end." he say} at last, u», ,. ,VWV. “If is backed up by deliberate, me- chanical, mafitepof-fact fng‘ill.“ .. .n vxluAAALua, mwuvwi u. “4‘ .. “I will work for you, Allie, if you will only give me the chance!” “Will you work for me, Gerard?” He bends down and kisses my hairâ€"a quick passionate kiss. “As long as there is breath in my body, darling.” ‘ A. _i . l - -u L” uw; u” . I: “Then I will tell you what I will Ila.” I say gravely and deliberately. “On the day that. you sell a picture for one hun- dred pounds if you come and ask me to @arry you. Gerard Baxter, I will say . es!” No," I answer, smiling back again: “but because it wfll prove to me that you have begun to work.” ‘gou will marry me then, Allie?” "I won't be long painting that pic- ture!" he exclaims boyishly. “My dar- ling, do you know how happy you have made me?” “For the sake of fin hundred pounds, Allie?" miling a lively: He is standing close to me his arms round me, his dark head lowered against my fair one, our two, foolish hearts full of glufoplish dream never go be fulfilled. ,LL ,_ w w..,.. “W.” "My, 7 “Allie!” they call to me from the other and of the room, turn‘ing their dazzled eyes from the piano‘ and Crauford’s long- haired friend to peer into our shadowy space of twilight. “Allie, come and sing ‘Galla Water.’” I move down the room in my long dress, a faint, white. presence with no spot of darker color about. it than the bunch of heliotrope fastened mm The coil of filmy lace about the throat, and followed by a, darker figure which looks like its shadow in the faint. perspective of the long shadowy rpom. N c “aw; fist $31115 5mg Alliel gnd 'Logie o’_B1}chaQ. V‘Galla. VWater,‘ J1! And I sit down and sing them with the careless gayety, the dash and insoucianee without. which, Olive Deane tells me, I should not be Allie Scott. But mll the time I am thinking of two =liadowy fig- ures outlined against a, faint gold-green sky. of a. star that "flickered into red and emerald,“ of a voice that had said “And you will marry me, Allie?" and of another voice that had, answered “Yes.” “Your aunt has come." Such is Mary Anne’s greeting to me in the hall of No. 33 Carleton Street. “My aunt! What aunt?" “Your aunt from the N nntry. She came about an hour ago, and was that surprised to find you had gone 0112:" “But what has she come for? Is any- thing wrong at home?” “Not a thing in the world. She says she wrote to tell you she was commg, and to have a. room ready, bueause she meapt to stay.“ “Meant to stay!" I repeat, thinking of the unopened letters of the morning. “So she says. She's in the drawing- room now, giving it to the mistress." “Giving her what?" I ask stupidly. “A piece of her mind, she says; but I think it's the whole of it!” the maid-of- all-work stays, grinning. “It‘s all along of the Count she be come, I expect. She says Mrs. Wauchope deceived her about having no iodgers ‘b_ut the Misses Pryqe.” mth Gail hix7é trolii' Alint Rosa anything about him? And what a. state of mind she must have béon in before she would decide to come up to town in such a hurry! "Aunt Rosa!” I cxclaim, in a. tone of the most. innocent astonishment. “My dear Aunt Rosa, 1 am so sorry you at- rived while I was out.” The sentence may be ambiguous; Aunt Rosa‘doesr not per elvp 1t. " “So am 1.” she says, when she has planted a cold kiss upon my nose. “I did not think you came up to London to go to evening-parties,” "‘But I \vasvazzith the Rollestons, auntâ€" pe/xy‘iectly respeptqblq peoplg’i - “Humbh! 7‘ And héw- did you come home?” "They sent me home 111 their carriage â€"-tI4xey always do.” "I wrote 1,0 you yesterday. Is there anything the matter with the postal ar- rangements?" “Not that I know of, Aunt, Rosa. “Then I am to conclude that you never ope_u my Jetters?” “I was in a hurry this morningâ€"«break- fast was late, and I was afraid of being late at Madame Cronhelm’s. I did glance through. your letter; but I must have overlooked anything you said about com- ing up to town_.’f She says nothing to me about Mrs. Wauchope’s contraband ledger; but I know, as well as if she had told me, that somebody has been ofiicious enough to write and tell her all about himl I sus- pect Mrs. Deane; but) I ask Aunt Rosa no questions, nor does she volunteer any information >to-night. “It seems Mrs. Wauchope has no spare room for me. In those circums;ancesâ€"” “My dear Aunt onsa, you can have my room. I will sleep here on the sofa, and just run in there to dress. There is a dressing-roomâ€" Indeed, perhaps I had better have a shake-down in the dress- ing-room, if Mrs. Wauchope can manage it.” She is managing It now. I don’t, like ydu fail?”- not fail with such CHAPTER V. an incentive but "0h, because you just let. her do as she pleases! Have you been burning no- thing but Scotch coal since you came up to town?” “I have had very good fires, auntie.” “I am surprised at it, then. That coal in the grate is nothing but rubbish, though I dare say you are paying the very highest. price for it. And the tea she gave me was execrableâ€"perfectly exe- arable!” "She has always been civil to me, Aunt Rosa.” that woman, Rosalie. She has a most. virulent tongue.” “I’m not much judge of tea, Aunt; Resa," I say, yawning. “I hope you've brought me up some jam from Woodhay, though, and some of our own butterfl: “I’ve done‘ no such thing. You're com- ing home with me to-morrowwthere's been enough and too much of this folly, and your uncle is very sorry he was ever foolishly persuaded into giving his con- sent to it.” “To-morrow. Aunt Rosa!” “Not, a day later than to-morrow.” "But don’t you want to see something of London, auntie?” » “I want to see the last of it. I’m onlv sorry I didn’t know what I know now three weeks ago, and your ridiculous freak would have come to an end a great deal sooner. How your Uncle Todhunter could ever have agreed to such an egregi- ous piece of folly passes my comprehen- sion !” r _ V _ Poor Aunt Rom! If she only knew that the steed was stolen, how much less clat- ter she would have made in looking: the door! In my heart I confess that she is right. I have got into mischief here in London, or into what she would consider mischief. If I had never come up to Mrs. Wauchope‘s furnished lodgings, I should probably never have met "I cannot possibly go home mâ€"morrow, Aunt. Rosa," 1 say, laying aside my squirrel-lined cloak and the fan which I had been holding in my hand since I came into the room. “I muxzt tell Ma- dame Cronhelm that I am leaving :own, and I must. say good-bye to the Rolle- n stons. fi Ydu ca3n write to them both. A note will do just as well.” gfial‘iw'h-ogmwriie. You can :10 home to-morrow, and I will follow the next day, if you do not care to stay in Lonâ€" don.” “I shall not leave you behind me, Ro- salie.” "That landscape-painter Which did win my heart from me.” (3 The Rayo Lamp is an insurance against eye troubles, alike for young and old. ~ an The Rayo is a low-priced lamp, but it is constructed on the soundest scientific principles, and there is not a better lamp made at any price. It is easy on the eye because its light is so soft and white and widely diffused. And a Rayo Lamp neVer flickers. Easily lighted without removing shade or chimney; easy to clean and :ewick. Solid brass throughout. with handsome nickel finish; also in many other styles and finishes. As]: your dealer to show you his line of Raye lumps; or write for descriptive circular to any agency 0 EXTRA GRANULATED SUGAR IS ABSOLUTELY PURE. . 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The Lamp That Saves The Eyes "Very well, then; you must stay fill the, day after to-mormw." ” "i s'h'aTl hiatéc?io$ic§§o§bj“'1 ’r’epeat ob- stinwtely; and Aunt. Rosa. knowing meL of.old, thinks it better not to press the pomt. I must see my boy again. This is the. idea which is uppermost in my mind. 1* cannot go away without seeing him; but' how shall I manage it? I may not chance: to meet him at the Rollestons’ to-morrow; and, if not, shall I be forced to go away, without bidding him good-bye? I knew this evening that our time together wouldf not be long, but I did not dream that it would be so short as this. , "But your uncle sent word by me that: yog werg to come home “Noyce.” “I hope you won‘t be very uncomforfi table, Aunt Rosa. You won’t find the; hair mattress as soft as your feather" bed at home." . “I don’t expect to be whole place appears to shabby to a degree.”_ Itwivs 1-161: Extrarfl Wretched, I assure you'. And I have improved greatly since went to MadameflCronhelm'sf’L AuntWRosa sEih’sTéii‘oing Wbolt upright in the most uncomfortable chair in the room. I light her bedroom candle with ala: crity, and precede her into the inner room. A little camp-bed has been put up for me in the dressing-room; but, be- fore I go to bed. and after I have helped Aunt. Rosa to unpack her night-garments, I creep back to the (lying fire in the drawing-room, and, sitting on the rug, loan my chin on my palms, and think‘ of those two figures in that twilight win- dow, and of a foolish promise made only to be broken. Butl if he comes to me, shall I not say "Yes"? If he keeps his. share of the- agreement, shall I not keep mine A foolish happy smile curves my lips in the dying firelightithe lips that he has kissed by the light of that great solitary evening-star. Yes, I will keep my promise, Gerard. But will you keep yours? “I think I will go to bed," she says. “That woman has quite tigfzd mg ou_t." I go to Madame Cronhelm's in the morning, and after that to the Rolle- sbons’ The Rollestons are sorry I am go- ing awayâ€"Ada especially. Mr. Baxter is not at Berkeley Street, nor does any one mention his name. I come back to lunch- eon at Carleton Street, though the R01- lestons try hard to keep me, and have just finished that long delayed meal when Mary Anne comes in with a card in her grimy hand, which she proffers to me. (To be continued.) John Refinefil LIMITED comfortable. The me wretched and