PROBATION: A TALE OF THE LANCASHIRE COTTON FAMINE;

BY MISS JESSIE FOTHKRGILL,

Author of "Healey," "Aldyth.""Tho First

Violin," etc.

CHAPTER XXIV. AURIENNE and Sebastian were walking " just the opposite way," with very little more satisfaction to themselves than Hugo and Helena had found. Helena was con stantly picturing Sebastian to herself as engaged in half intellectual, half amoroiis discourse with the "nicest of girls," his mind elevated by her spiritual observations, and his languid but ever present sense o£ superiority (this was Helena's theory) "ratified by her deference to his superior wisdom. It was a comical theory—one worthy of Helena's vivid imagination, and hopelessly impractical ideas; and was, moreover, as far removed from the truth ns sho herself could possibly have wished. Yes, wished; for the delusive vision kept dangling before her mental eyes, and while she 'professed to sneer and seoft" at It, it was in reality :iu ever-present, dull pain, none the less real because not comprehended clearly for what it was. On this special evening Adrieune was tired more than usual, and mentally as well iih physically wonry, An undefined ■pain and distress had troubled her mind for (some weeks. To-day the cloud was very great. She had seen Sebastian Mallory growing more and more intimate with her uncle, and progressing with great rapidity in the favour of that most fastidious indi vidual ; she had seen—how could she help seeing?— Sebastian's attention to herself; how, when ho was with her, his eyes con stantly turned towards her, and how a light ilashed into their quietness when they met hers ; how his voice, in speaking to her, took a deeper sound. He was good, rich, handsome, clever, kind. She knew all his good qualities, and thoroughly valued them. She approved ofliim ; she liked his presence, it was pleasant to her. She remembered with deep, earnest gratitude his delicate kindness and attention to her in those days gone by, when her troubles with her father, and her terrible struggle against their adverse circumstances had threatened to overwhelm her. "I would do anything for you," sho had said, and had meant it. And yet now ! llow painfully, unexpected ly, things changed ! Thus meditating, her step dragged, and her head drooped alittle, as they paced the dreary length of lilake strcet together. Sho did not understand why that load of oppression and longing— that Sehjbsucht should just now lie so heavily upon her heart. Sebastian paused at the'gate, and laid his hand upon it, and then Adrienne seemed to see, in a Hash of sunlight, Myles Hoywood's tall figure, and earnest face, as lie in the same attitude, almost a year agn, had laid his hand upon that wicket, and had opened it for her to pass in. Her heart throbbed—something rose in her throat as she entered. "Myles has not been near us for weeks," said she to herself. "I will go and call there some day, very soon," she added valiantly, "and ask the reason of it, and if I have done anything to offend them." Mr Blisset, his servant said, was not at all well. He felt very weak and had gone to bed, but he had left word that if Mr Mal lory called, he particularly wished to see him. Sebastian followed the man upstairs. Adrienne went into the drawing room, and mechanically sat down, without oven turning up the shaded lamp, and her hands clasped themselves before her upon her knees. Sebastian sat a long time beside Mr Blisset's bed, for their conversation was prolonged. At last Mr Blisset said: "And I have made you one of my execu tors. I hone you; don't mind. I have so few friends. "I am honoured in being chosen, and will gladly undertake it." " Thank you. Of course I have left everything to Adrienne. She will be placed above all money troubles; for she is like me, sho has no" extravagant desires. Bu I should wish tlio child to have a staunch friend, and you are different from other young men, or I would not have aaked it. Will you be her friend t" "It is my most earnest wish. But sinoo we have spoken of this, I may as well tell you the whole truth. I have loved your niece for a long time—for years. When I find an opportunity, I intend asking her to become my wife. Have yoti any thingagainst it?" Mr Blisset prcssod the young man's hand with a clasp tliat had grown fecblo. " You make me very happy. I would rather know her safe in your hands than in those of any other man.1 "I wish you could know it," said Sebas tian, with a somewhat melancholy smile. "I assure you I am far from feeling confi dent myself, but I hope for the best." "I think you may bo quite confident," said Mr Blissct. "Poor child ! Now sho need not be alone, and has a fair chance of a safe, untroubled future, such as a woman ought to enjoy." Shortly after this Sebastian left him, and went away without seeing Adrienne. Later, she went upstairs to sit with her uncle, and asked if she should read to him. "No,thank you, my child. I shall need no more reading now, Adrienne. You wearisome, monotonous task is almost a an end." " Dear uncle, what do you mean ?" "lam what men call dying, my dear. Whether it is the end of all things for each of us, or whether it is the beginning of an endless succession of advancing lives, very soon I shall knowm-or I shall not know." ' She kissed his hand. 1 'You must not talk in that way. You have been very good to me, and I cannot spare you. I love you, uncle,you must not leave mo." "I fear your pleasure will not be consul; tod on that point, my daughter," said he, with a strange smile, lialf pity, half deep amusement, " Ah! Adrienne, when men have lived—or existed—as I have done, and for so long, they are not sorry when the machinery comes to a stop, and they know no more." Much moved and much distressed she listened to him until he sent her away, telling her to sleep uudisturbedly, for he would yet live to talk with her, and con vince her that it was for the best. Buthe was wrong. When morning dawned Richard Blisset was at rest, and' free from the mantle of pain and weakness which he had boracsolong. CHAPTER XXV. TO THE DREGS. The merry month of May, in the year of 1862, and in that part of Her Majesty's dominions known as the County Palatine of Lancashire, wore a face even less smil ing 'and colder than usual. Despite the

gaudy sunshine, despite tlie unusual chances offered to external nature of showing her self to the host advantage through the ab sence of smoke—despite this, all was sad, penitential, silent. One missed the hurst of talk and laughter, the dialling and shout ing in the streets when the mills were loosed. One missed the tramp, tramp of the thousands of clogs over the Hags at the appointed times. Trade had collapsed; King Cotton was discrowned; his subjects had become a na tion of paupers; some of whom wore bog gin" their bread, all of whom were living chiefly on help from outside. There was a vast organisation kept up, chiefly by unpaid,' voluntary toil, for discovering distress and distributing relief. Tlianshope had now added herself to the list of towns which had instituted Belief Committees, and Sebas tian's schools had been merged into the larger ones belonging to the public body. They had served as a sort of model or in troduction, and the others were founded on the name plan. He himself was one of the most powerful and active members of the committee, while Adrienno and Helena, from their previous experience, were in rea lity the head and front of the ladies' com mittee, though duly subordinated in out ward order to Mrs Ponsonby, and one or two other dames of place and importance. But while the groat complicated machine was working with such regularity and smoothness, so that it and its movements were praised by all who beheld them, what were those doing on whose behalf all this mechanism hud been set a-going '! What was happening in the thousands of homes whose most cherished hopes and traditions had to be given up in this terrible ciner- Koney V In the one homo in which we are interested it was going hardly enough. It was in the very beginning of the month —a bright, glaring, sunny May morning to look upon, Avitli a dry, pitiless east wind blowing down the shady side of the streets. It was the middle of the forenoon, and the Hey woods' kitchen did not get the morn ing sun. There was no fire. Mary and her next door neighbour, Mrs Mitchell, took turns sit having a fire, for the cooking in both households now was less extensive than it once had been, and each alternately undertook the responsibility of the other's baking and boiling. This was the day on which Mrs Mitchell had the lire; conse quently, Mary's kitchen was all the colder from its bareness and its spotless neatness. She was sitting in the window, sewing. Myles was at tho centre table, with some books from the library beforo him, ostensi bly reading—really gazing blankly at the page, and looking as it is not good that a young man, or any man, should look— looking as men only do when their affairs are in a very bad way. _ Hlii sister stole occasional side-glances at hi* face, and her heart wept, if her eyes did not. She and Edmund had been living all this time upon the weekly sum allowed by Sebastian Mallory to such of his hands as chose to accept it. They had beep aided by Myles from his own store, in order that Edmund might have the things ho required; and that store, Mary knew now, was at an end, had come to an end some days ago. She did not quite know how Myles had lived during those few dreadful days. He had accepted nothing, from lior, because what she offered had been bought with Sebastian Mallory's money. He had smiled when she implored him to take something, andrepay her when times mended, if he would not have it as a gift; smiled in a way that had not encou raged her to repeat the offer. He had made no complaints, had been very quiet, but those days had been the most wretched Mary had ever spent in her life. She knew what her brother had been trying to hold out for, but the hope continued to t>c de ferred ; and even if it must now be soon fultillod, she feared the relief would come too late to save him from what he and she both considered the supreme and ultimate disgrace and shame of having to apply for relief. Some fortnight ago, the relief com mittco had advertised for two clerks, to re lieve their honorary secretaries of the bur den of accounts ana correspondence, which had grown greater than they could bear. Candidates of the artisan class were invited to apply, and it was intimated that, if com petent, they would be preferred rather than others, on the principle of helping them to help themselves. Myles Heywoodhad been one of tbc applicants, and tho decision , would not bo known for two days yet. The day before Mary had met Mr Mallory and hurriedly implored him to use his influence, if he had any, to get her brother in ; but nover, never to say she had. asked him, or she did not know what might happen if Myles ever know of it. Ho had promisod ; but there still remained a dreadful blank of two days, and then, even with Sebastian's, efforts, the answer might be that Myles was rejected. Thus she sat this morning, with a siok lioart, furtively watching her brother in an anguish of pity. Would it really come to tho worst t Would he actaally have to turn his stops—her brother, of whom she was so proud—towards those dreadful doors above which glftrod, in white letters a foot long, " Relief Committee's Offices!" those doors which sho thanked God every night, she had not yet been obliged to enter. Ho had had no breakfast, sho knew; sho did not khow whon he had last eaten, or of what the meal had consisted. His face was ter ribly wasted; so was tho muscular, long fingorod hand, which lay before him on tho table. There was lassitude in his attitude, a drawn look about his lips and his eyes ; his eyes haunted her, and made her vory heart bleed when she encountered them. What would ho do ? At eleven the com mittee began their sitting, it was ten miu utes to eleven now, and the offices were some distance away. If he were going, it was time he She started violently, as lie, at this mo ment, pusr ed his books away from him with a slow, resolute sweep of his hand, and rose. What a forcible change had taken place in the whole figure and deportment of the man! Myles took his cap from tho nail on which it hung and turned to her. " I'm going out, Molly," said he. " Yes, she answered; and something in tho muffled, toneless accent of her voice made him look at her. She was gazing in tently at him, with a fixed, almost staring look—a glance of blank pain and suffering, passive, yet terrible. ''Mary,"saidhe, pausing. "Youknow Svhat it is. It must be. You think it is the worst; but I tell you it is not so. It is not so bad as what you would have me do." With that he left the room and the house. Ho had a pretty long walk, up and down hill. Ho felt inexpressibly tired—and worse than tired; his stomach was empty; he had a sick, gnawing sense of hunger— absolute, grinding hunger, such as he had read of.others—destitute people—feeling; but such as he had never before felt, till now that he was destitute himself^ His head felt weak and dizzy; his mina dull and stupid—he found he could only walk slowly, as he took first this turning, and then that, and presently arrived at his destination—tho one place in Tlianshope where, insthese hard times, a flourishing business was being carried on. ' About the door was a crowd of people —men and women ; young and' old. The expressions upon the different faces varied from callousness, through every variety of unwillingness, pain, and shame, up to a

careless hardihood that felt no disgrace, and only wishful to make the most of tlio oppor tunity. Into this crowd stepped the tall figure of the young workman; his face white, half with exhaustion, half with emotion, Ins lips set, his deep-set eyes glooming be neath the pain-drawn, brows. He , looked neither to the right nor left of him, but lean ing against the wall, plunged his hands into his pockets and waited. There waa a kind of network of railings before the door, through which the people had to pass in single file, to prevent their crowding in to gether, and Myles, like the rest, had to wait his turn. Most men have to go through one or two mauvais quarts d'heure in the course of their lives, but few can have surpassed in bitterness the minutes which, Myles Hey wood spent, waiting his' turn, before the door of the committee room. Some one recognised him, spoke to him, and said she had never expected to see him there. He answered mechanically and composedly, but felt his faoo suddenly grow fierily hot; and then a little push from behind warned him to move on, and he obeyed it. He entered the largo room in company with Rcveral other people, and there were more than a dozen gentlemen seated round a table in the middle of the room. But from the moment in which he entcrod and saw a face raised, a pair of eyes fixed in pitying astonishment upon him, ho felt as if ho were alone with one man, and that man Sebastian Mallory. Strange to say he had never remembered, had scarcely been conscious of the fact, that Mallory was one of the moat important members of this committee. He knew it now—realised as the face of his rival Plashed like a cymbal on bis face, and for a moment the sense of degradation, of hum iliaiion, burned and scorched him, and lie felt almost mad. Almost—but no; reason was still the stronger. The remembrance of his o^/ira utter destitution, the distinct imperative call of sickness and hunger, the clear know ledge that there was no alternative, pre vailed. He did not turn round and walk away. He remained, but how he dragged his feet towards the desk of the man who was asking questions, he knew not. How he answered those questions, remained also a mystery to him. The gentleman heard him, noted his address, and_ said he would see that the case was inquired into. Myles felt no resentment at the idea of his statements being thought to require inves tigation ; whether because his pride had. been once for all laid low, or whether from sheer weakness and dulncss of sense, he did not know. He was turning away, wonder ing when the inquiries would be made, and how much longer he would be able to hold out, when Sebastian Mallory for the first time removing his attention from the writing in which ho had apparently been engrossed, said composedly : _ ■ "There is no need to trouble tho risitor to inquire into that case, Mr Whitaker. I can vouch for the truth of every word of it. I should recommend you to write a ticket and pay the sum required at once." Tlien he turned to the writing again. Mr Whitaker said: " All, that is all right then," and imme diately took a ticket and began to write. Myles felt as if everything was reel ing around him, and himself with the rest. He caught at the top of a chair by_ the table and steadied himself, feeling as if he were someone else, some strange, alien, degraded being—one of the beggars of whom he used to road in advanced periodicals, that they ought not to be relieved by private, miscellaneous almsgiving, but should all be ticketed and classified, and strictly watched and overlooked. It Ws as the bitterness of death, and .must, be borne unmoved, standing composedly and decently. All the time he still supported himself oy the back of the chair, unable from very weakness, and dizziness, to more. Tho gentleman who sat in it rose, and looked at him, with a pair of keen, stern, steel-grey eyes. "You look ill, young man," said he, " Opine with me, and I will show you where to Ret the money." He took the ticket in his hand, and, taking Mylcs's arm, led him away through a side door, into a small sort of anteroom. Here he bade Myles sit down, and he took from a cupboard_ some wine—red urine, which he poured into a glass, and gave to Myles with a piece of bread. "Take that," said he, "and drink the wine, or you will be ill before you get home. You have fasted long. You should have come sooner. How long is it since you had any food ?" "About thirty-six hours, I think," said Myles, looking at him as he took the glass in hia hand, It was Canon Ponsonby, "the ltadical parson," the man who ought to have been a prime minister, but who, as rector of Thanshope, earned more love than falls to the lot of most prime ministers, charm they never so wisely. His stern face softened, as he looked upon the figure before him. " You have a right spirit," said he. "I know your name, and who you are. Your sister attends the parish church. You " "Attend no church at all. I'm a free thinker." " Arc you ? I don't think yon will over solve your riddle by free thinking. But shake hands. I wish you were one of my flock." "If anything could make me one of a flock, it would be that you are the shepherd, sir," said Myles, finishing his bread and wine aud feeling a warmer life in his veins, and at his heart. "See!1' said Canon Pohsonby, "hereis the week ly allowance, to which your ticket entitles you. Do not trouble to call at the office. Good morning," he took the young man's hand. "I have long known of you. I am glad to have seen you. God have you in his keeping 1" Strangely moved and grateful, Myles silently clasped . the old man's hand. He could not speak. Canon Ponsonby showed him out by a side door, so that he avoided that dreadful crowd round the entrance. He was in the street again, with, the white ticket, and some money in his hand. After what Canon Ponsonby had said to him, he had ceased to feel that dreadful agony of shame, but he felt utterly crushed, and reduced to the most perfect insignifi? cancc. Dreamily pursuing his homeward way, he turned over tho money in his hand, and remembered that ho must buy some food with it ! Food ! for himself ? When he had gone through that age of anguish, as it had seemed to him, he should take the coins which had been so hardly earned, and buy bread with them, and eat them ! It struck him as being absurd—as if one had used a steam hammer to crush a midge withal. Nevertheless, he went into a shop, and bought some bread and cheese, and was carrying it home, still with the same sense of incongruity between the means and the end. But, as he passed a doorstep, at the end of a street, he beheld a little girl sitting on it, and crying bitterly. " Little one, what's the matter ?" he asked, stopping, and looking down at her.

" I'm—so—hungry 1" said the child, with a sob between each word, as she looked I>itconsly up into his face, and held a thin ittlo pinafore, soaked with tears, in two small, tremulous hands. "So hungry," he said, stooping over her with the sense that perhaps, after all, he had not gone through the furnace to find nothing at the other side. "Hast had no breakfast I" " Nay, none at o'." "How's that?" Here a thin, cleanly-looking, poorly-clad woman, with a baby in her arms, came to the door. " Come in, Sarah Emily," said she. " For shame o' thisel to sit bawlin' on til' dur step. Thi feyther's gone to see about summatto ayt. Coom in, and howd thy din." "I'm—so—hungry!" was the only answer. " Ne'er heed her, lad!" said the woman to Myles. "My measter's gone to th' com mittee to-day. We've had to come to that, and we'll likely get summat to ayt afore ncct." "Nay, but it's very hard for such a bit of a lass to wait so long," said Myles. "If you'll trust her to' me, I'll give her some breakfast. I'm just going to get my own." "Eh, thank you, you're very kind," said the woman, her voice suddenly breaking, as she looked at him, and then turned aside again. "Come, my lass," said Myles, gently, and he took* the open-mouthed Sarah Emily in his arms, and carried her to Ms home. In the kitchen, seated in Mary's rocking chair, lie explained briefly to his sister that the child was clemming, and must be fed, and then he cut her some bread and cheese, and watched her with an intense and alto gether unwonted interest while she ate it. He felt almost light-hearted. If he had not, so to speak, walked up to the cannon's mouth this morning, little Sarah Emily might have been sickening with hunger until even-tide. " Good I good 1" she cried, when she had eaten as mnch as she could. And she laughed at him, while he slowly ate something himself. "Look here!" he suggested, "do you think you could find your way from your home to this another day ?" . " Eh, ay i It's none so far," said Sarah Emily. "Then, if you come every morning— every morning mind—l'll give you some tiling'to eat always, eh?" he suggested. "But I can ayt such a jot, when I'm hungry," said Sarah Emily bashfully, putting her forefinger into her mouth. '' JVever mind ! There'll always be some thing. Wilt come ?" " Eh, I will so !" said the child, clapping her hands, and jumping upon his knee, and kissing him. Thus was the bargrin struck. There is at this day in Thanshope a dark, eyed young woman, of some ;twenty-four years, who has a husband and some young children. When the little ones clamour for breakfast or dinner, she is in the habit of reproving them, bytellingthem that they don't know what real hunger is '; and, as an instance in point, she is given to relating the story hew she sat on the doorstep one day in the '' panic,'' crying with hunger, and how the tall, pale-faced young mad, with the dark eyes picked her up, and carried her home, and gave her food ; and how either he_or his sistar welcomed their hungry little visitor daily for — " How long, mother ?" "Three months, child; every day—eh, they were kind; they were so." " Is he alive now, mother ?" "Ah, for sure he is, and " But the dark-eyed young woman always makes rather a long story of it, and freely intersperses remarks and comments, which, though doubtless interesting to her family, might not be considered of value by the public in general. Two days later, the pos.man brought Myles a summons to attend at the central oflices of the Relief Committee that day, as he was one of the successiul candidates for the clerkship, and his salary would be twenty shillings a week. Thus the worst, materially, was tided ovor ; but the bitterness of the cup he h»d drunk that terrible morning did not lightly pass away. CHAP TED XXVI. A PAU3E. When Myles began his work at the Com mit te Office, one conspicuous member of the Ladies' Committee was temporarily Adrienne Blisset was then occupied in learning the condition of her own affairs, and found herself soon in a totally different position from any she had ever expected to fill_very rich, as it seemed to her, and a person of great importance ; and, what was strangest of all, with Sebastian Mallory coming aud going, fulfiilling his duties as executor, and explaining everything to her. She repeatedly told him that she could not believe it; there must be a mistake. All that money hers, to do as she liked with 1 and she had not earned it, nor worked for '• What an idea you hare of working for everything you get J" he exclaimed sudden ly one day. "Do you carry it bo far as ■to demand a service from everyon* to whom you accord a sign of favour 1" " Really I don't know what you mean," replied she- '' I only know that I have got, you tell me, between six and sevenhundred a year, and I have done notbihg to deserve it."

"No. I suppose you have to deserve it now, by using it properly," .said he sed ately. Tbat was, in fact the amount of Adrienne's means and it was natural that it should appear to hor, as wealth unboun ded, She had also Stonegate on a lease, which had somewhat over two years to run. And when she had learnt all this, and that shs really was the mistress of such means, with the only draiv-back that there -was no one to share them with, no one to consult with—herself alone, and her own pleasure aud convenience to study; when she had grasped these facts, and had begun to feel rather sad and lonely, she returned to her work one morning in a black dress, looking rather iMnner and paler than she had done before. The people with whom she had oeeomc acqnainted in her work, and who had heard the reason of her übsencr, came round her, and though not openly, congratu lated her, hoped she would now take her recognised place amongst them, asJed if they might call, and so on. And as she somewhat vaguely and sadly answereu these efiorts at friendship, she looked up and saw someone pass the window. It was Myles Heywood going to his work. Adrienne's name had become well known in Thanshopc during the last three months. It was but a provincial town, and everyone seemed thoroughly acquainted with every one else's affairs. Mrs Mallory had been much annoyed at finding Sebastian "mixed up, as she called Mr Blissot's affairs, and, above all, with those of Miss Blisset. She had to explain it as well as she could to certain friends, who had asked her who this Miss Blisset was, and what it ali meunt.

Sebastian, she saiv, was so very good natnred : she feared he would-be impospd upon some time. Did she know Miss Blisset ? Certainly she did, in a way ; but

as for being a friend of hers, certainly not! Sebastian had consented to act as Mj ■ Blisset's executor out of pure goodwill and kindness, because the man was so much to be pitied, aad seemed to have absolutely no friends. That was all. , ... But despite all Mrs Mallory's efforts' if ■ got known that her son and the young lady ■> •' who had lately come into a fortune, and • who was reported to be both charmincr ani j accomplished, were very great friends Helena Spenccley took rather a malicioia pleasurs in upholding this theory in Mia Mallory's very presence, so that that lady 7' wonld have boxed her ears with pleasure if one could box the ears of a person, who would have one hundred thousand pounds some day. _ Thus -Missßlisset and Mr Mallory .were already talked about in a certain set, and Adrienne's duties made her name, and herself familiar to another and a less distuv \'- fuished public —to the working people of 'hanshope. She had been'a notability amongst them before her sudnen accession to wealth and friends; she was doubly well known to them now- She war busy and pre-occupied, thought Myles, as he Bat . at his desk iv the second office, and saw her almost daily pass the windows on her way '^ to the Ladies Committe room. She was a lady oi property sought after and busy, and he was a clerk on a high stool, to whom she scarce spoke a word from one week's end to another. Those years or distress brought about some strange acquaintances, and led to some unusual events, Though everything appeared on the outside to work so smoothly ' ■ v there were active emotions stirring amongst - the members of that Thanshope Relief Committee—emotions quite unconnected / ■with the wants of those for whose benefit .. they had assembled themselves. Thecir- '-. cums^ances were exceptional, and it wag only under exceptional circumstances that ■ ' that those particular people could have not only met, but continued almost daily to inset and oome in contact with one another, • Gradually circumstances drew tham to- , , gether—gradually as they met, tha half, forgotten feelings of love and hate, con tempt and pity, sprang into life and ac tivity again, and emotion stepped to the / front, and all these things acted and re acted one upon the other, till every story <■' was modified, every life received a bend thfe way or that, a change in the even tenor of its way. 'Ht'l§ CHAPTER XX7II. A MEETING. . Mr Spenceley, the millionaire, therichest I man in Thanshope, the man of boundless wealth and boundless calousness, was ! '; amongst those cotton lords who, to then lasting shame and disgrace, were deter mined at this crisis, not to come forward ■'.■■'. and give of their abundance, but who pre ferred to hang back until the popular voice left them no option, and the universal , ..'• indignation absolutely thrust them to the front. For a long time Mr Spenceley had con- ; tented himself -H^h abusing the sorely taicd workpeople, demanding to know why they -.';. did not all emigrate, and vowing that he would, not waste his money upon them, He amused himself by everywhere calling Sebastian Mallory, behind his back, a fool and a madman, a spendthrift, a pernicious ; leveller, and so on ; and by behavinSS to him before nis face with the utmost courtesy arid politeness, excusing conduct which might savour of double dealing, by saying that such fools could never be made to see that they were fools, and that it was best to ;. take them as you found them, and let them go their Qwn way. When the Public Relief Committee was It established, and one and all, rich and poor, jl young and old, contributed something, ? either in money, or kind, or assistance, or all, the chief inhabitant of Thanshope could no longer hold back. He allowed his name / t •' to appear as a member of the committee, " ' sent a subscription of a hundred pounds, and. deputed his son to act as his proxy at ' i; councils, committee meetings and so on.. '.'■ Despite the bad times, he himself was so much, engaged with business that'hehadno ~ - ] time to attend to such things. Accordingly, Fred Spenceley shed the ;/ light of his countenance upon the council £ board and those surrounding it. He con tinued to come, despite a terrible rebuff he received on the occasion of his first appear ance upon the scene. It was that rebuff, and one or two inci dents connected with it, which filled him with rage and bitterness; so that if he had been an Irish reaper, or anOldham weaver, he would have proceeded to drink himself blind, and then gone home and maltreated his wife, or any other feminine creature within the range of his arm. Being in a different station from that occupied by ■■■ reapers and weavers, and thinly veneered over into a poor tinselly outward semblance of a gentleman, he only raged frantically, within himself, and cast about to find an instrument to execute a moral revenge, which, he had sense enough in his dull brutal brain, to know, would far more tor ;; ture theobjectsof it than all the corpora punishment in the world. He arrived one afternoon, thinking the whole business a great piece of "tom foolery." The Relief Committee's offices .^ consisted of three rooms, opening one out of the other. The first was the Ladies' Committee room, a large, spacious place, . where the ladies could meet, decide upon their proceedings, and hear the accounts of their wants and troubles brought to them by mothers, wives, and daughters from all parts of the town. Passing through the room, a second and smaller one was reached in which sat the two clerks, Myles Hey wood and a lad who was under him. Through this second apartment, ingress was obtained to the Gentlemen's Committee room, where the council assembled, three times a week as a rule, and oftener if necessary. . > Coming *to attend his first committee meeting, Fred Spenceley entered the first of these rooms, and glancing round, beheld different groups scattered in different parts of the room. No one took any notice of him ; they were all much too busy; but as he looked round, he perceived in one of ■ the windows apart from the rest, three per- . sons; Sebastian Mallory, whom he had hated since first he saw his face, as only a true " cad " can. hate a true gentleman; and two ladies—one in black, whose back ' was turned towards him, the other his sis ter Helena, erect, animated, with her dark1 eyes flashing, and her silks in some agita tion. He walked up to the group, and touched Helena on the shoulder, inquiring gra ciously : "Well, little one, what's the matter now?" . ■ ■,'■■■■ "Fred ! How you startled me! Have you come to the meeting ?" "Yes, I have. Much good it will do me or anyone else, my being here. But the governor was-—" . "Oh yes! I know. But stop ! You know '": Mr Mallory. Miss Blisset, let me—-" ,/..,■ Adrienne interrupted her. She was standing, pale, haughty and erect, with eyes full oi cold contempt; and she inter posed, in a cool, decided voice: "Pardon me, Miss Spenceley, I dp not wish for any introduction. I must decline to make that gentleman's acquaintance." With which she turned away, in perfect outward composure, {and seating herself on.

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, NOVEMBER 5, 1881

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