a few weeks' expenses of their humble home; two or three mementos of Lily, such as a piece of ribbon and a flower she had worn in her hair; and some old letters and papers, worn and faded. He took them from the box, and sadly read one and another. Among them were letters from Lily's father to her mother during their days of courtship; and certain terms of expression in them brought to him. the remembrance of sentiments almost similarly expressed by Alfred. The same vague declarations of being able to make large sums of money by unexplained means; the same selfishness, the same boastfulness, were there embodied. But not the same remorse which Alfred had already experienced; that was to come afterwards, and the despair which ever accompanies it. "We were happy, then, my daughter and I,' the old man murmured; happy before he came. My daughter's life might not have ended as it did, in misery; might not have been passed, as it was, in miserable repinings. He brought a blight upon us.' And then came the thought, 'Like father, like son.' He paced the room with disturbed steps. Alfred's father,' he thought, 'wrecked the happiness of the woman who loved him, who trusted implicitly in him-wrecked the happiness of my daughter, who once was as bright as my darling Lily. And how she changed under the consequence of his vice and his folly! How she drooped, and drooped, until life became torture! As she trusted him and believed in him, and sacrificed herself for him, so Lily trusts and believes and is ready to sacrifice herself for Alfred. Shall I allow her to do this, blindly? The end would not be the same, for Lily could not live through it. How can I save my darling? Would it not be better to inflict a sharp pain

upon her now than to see her walk blindly, confidingly, lovingly, to a desolate future?' At this point of his musings, he heard the streetdoor open and shut, and heard a stumbling step in the passage below. Looking over the papers in the iron box, he came upon two which he opened and read. They were the last two documents connected with the career of Lily's father. One was a full quittance for a sum of money which the unhappy man had embezzled; the wording of the other was as follows:

'In consideration of my fatherin-law paying the money due to Mr. James Creamwell, which I have wrongfully used, I solemnly promise not to trouble my wife with my presence as long as I live, and not to make myself known to my children in the future, should we meet by any chance. For the wrong that I have done, I humbly ask their forgiveness.

· RICHARD MANNING.'

'He has kept his word,' mused Old Wheels; 'from that time I have never seen him, never heard of him. I have wondered often if he is alive. No one but I have ever read this paper, unless Alfred, when he took the money from this box-— But no; he could have had no thought for anything but his unhappy purpose.'

Old Wheels was interrupted in his musings by the whining of a dog at the door. That's Snap's voice,' he said, and going to the door, he saw the faithful dog waiting for him. Snap, directly he saw the old man, looked into his face appealingly, and walked towards the stairs. Old Wheels, taking the candle, followed the dog downstairs, and found Jim Podmore asleep at the bottom. Snap, having fulfilled his mission, waited patiently for the old man to act.

'Come, Mr. Podmore,' said Old

Wheels, gently shaking the sleeping man; you mustn't sleep here. Come upstairs, and get to bed.'

The tired man murmured 'All right,' and settled himself comfortably to continue his nap. But Old Wheels shook him more roughly, and he rose to his feet wearily, and leaning against the wall, seemed disposed to fall asleep again in that position.

'Come, pull yourself together,' urged Old Wheels, taking Jim Podmore's arm; 'you'll be more comfortable in your own room than

here.'

Thus advised, and being well shaken, Jim 'pulled himself together,' and with many incoherent apologies, accompanied Old Wheels upstairs. When he arrived at the first landing, he appeared to think he had gone far enough, and quite naturally he stumbled into the old man's room, and fell into a chair.

'Come, come,' persisted Old Wheels, 'I am not going to allow you to fall asleep again. Bed's the proper place for you.'

'I should like,' murmured Jim, 'to go to bed-and sleep-for a month.'

Old Wheels laughed slightly at this.

'You wouldn't expect to wake up at the end of the time,' he said, continuing to shake Jim Podmore.

'I don't know-I don't careI'd like to go to bed-and sleepfor a year. All right, Mr. Wheels -don't shake me-any more!I'm awake--that is, as awake-as I shall be-till to morrow morning. I beg you-a thousand pardons— for troubling you. I suppose you found me asleep-somewhere. Where?'

'On the stairs.' 'Ah-yes. I thought-I should ha' fell down-in the streets-as I walked along. I was so-deadbeat. I'm glad you woke me up

for I wanted-to ask you something.'

Old Wheels thought it best not to interrupt the current of Jim's thoughts, and therefore did not speak. Jim shook himself much as a dog does when he comes out of the water, and having, it is to be presumed, by that action, aroused his mental faculties, proceeded.

'We've had a talk-to-day-me and some mates-and I made up my mind that I'd speak-to some one as might know-better than us. I meant you.'

'Yes. What were you speaking about?'

'Well, you see-it come in this way. I never told you - about Dick Hart-did I?'

'No-not that I remember,' replied Old Wheels.

'He was a mate of our'n-Dick Hart was. As good a fellow-as ever drawed-God's breath. He was working-on our line-a many months ago. He ain't working there now-not him-ain't working anywhere-can't get it. Willing enough- Dick Hart is-and abreaking his heart-because he can't get it. He's a doomed man -Mr. Wheels-a doomed man!— and might as well-be dead—as alive. Better-a dooced sight better-if it warn't for his wife-and kids.'

Jim Podmore was evidently warming up. His theme was powerful enough to master his fatigue. Old Wheels listened attentively.

It might have happened-to me-it might happen-to me-any night-when I'm dead-beat. What then?' he asked excitedly, to the no small surprise of Snap, to whom this episode was so strange that he stood aside, gazing gravely at his master. What then?' Jim repeated. 'Why, I should be-what Dick Hart is-a-wandering about--in rags-a-starving almost. I should be worse than him-for when I

think of the old woman upstairs -asleep-and my little Pollythat is my star-my star, Polly is! -and think of them-with nothing to eat-like Dick Hart's old woman and kids-I shouldn't be able -to keep my hands-to myself. And I shouldn't try to-I'm cursed if I should!'

Old Wheels laid his hand with a soothing motion on the excited man's shoulder.

'Be cool, Mr. Podmore,' he said. 'Tell me calmly what you want. You are wandering from the subject.'

'No, I ain't,' responded Jim Podmore doggedly. I'm sticking to it. And it ain't likely-begging your pardon-for being so rough -that I can be calm-when I've got what I have got in my mind.'

'What's that?'

Jim Podmore looked with apprehension at Old Wheels, and then turned away his eyes uneasily.

'Never mind that--it's my trouble and mustn't be spoken of. Let's talk of Dick Hart.'

'You were about,' said Old Wheels gently, 'to tell me some story connected with him.'

'He was as good a fellow-as ever drawed breath-and had been in the Company's service-ever so many years. There was nothing agin him. He did his work-and drawed his screw. Little enough! He got overworked-often-as a good many of us gets-a-many times too often-once too often for poor Dick-as I'm going to tell you, short. It must ha' been eight months ago-full-when Dick Hart-worked off his legswith long hours-and little resthad a accident. He took a oath

afterwards that he was that dead-beat-before the accidentthat he felt fit to drop down dead with fatigue. He couldn't keep his eyes open-as I can't, some

---

times-and when the accidenttakes place he goes almost mad. But that doesn't alter it. The accident's done - and Dick Hart's made accountable. He's took up —and tried-and gets six months. If what he did-had ha' been his fault he ought to have been — hung-but they didn't seem-quite to know-whether he was to blame -or whether he wasn't—so they give him six months to make things even, I suppose. While Dick's in prison-his wife's confined with her second-and how they live while he's away from 'em - God knows! Some of us gives a little-now and then. I give twice-but what Dick's wife got-in that way was-next to nothing-as much as we could afford. Dick Hart-comes out of prison-a little while ago and tries to get work-and can't. gets a odd job-now and thenby telling lies about himself-and his old woman-gets a little charing but they've not been ableto keep the wolf-from the door. It's got right in-and there they are-pretty-nigh starving--him and the old woman-and the kids.'

He

Jim Podmore's drowsiness coming upon him powerfully here, he had as much as he could do to keep himself awake. He indulged himself with a few drowsy nods, and then proceeded as though there had been no interval of silence.

'Well, we had a talk about him -to-day, me and my mates. We made upa little money - not much-but as much-as we could afford-about six shillings-and sent it to his old woman. But we can't go on-doing this-and one of the men said--that if it come to the officers' ears-or the directors' -that we'd been making up money -for a man as has been discharged -and's been in prison-and's cost the Company a lot o' money in damages (for they had to pay two

men as was able to afford a lawyer; there was others—as was poor-who didn't get anything)that if it come-to the directors' ears we should likely-get into trouble ourselves.'

Having come to the end of Dick Hart's story, Jim Podmore dozed off again, and would have fallen into deep sleep but for Old Wheels nudging him briskly.

'Well?' asked the old man.

'Ah, yes,' said Jim; 'I was almost forgetting. What I want to know is-is Dick Hart responsible -for what he's done? Is it right -that a respectable man-a hardworking man a honest man should be compelled-to work until he's lost-all control over hisself-till he's ready to drop-as I've told you before-and as I've been ready to myself and that then-when a accident happens-which wouldn't have happened if he'd been fresh or if a fresh man had been-in his place-is it right, I want to know,' and Jim Podmore raised his arm slowly and lowered it, and raised it again and lowered it again, as if it were a piston, 'that that man-should be put -in prison-should be disgraced -should lose his honest nameshouldn't be able to get work-for his old woman and the young uns-and that they should be almost starving-as Dick Hart's people's doing now?'

Fortunately for Old Wheels, who would have found these questions very difficult to answer, Jim Podmore was too tired and too sleepy to wait for a reply.

'If I don't go upstairs-immediate,' he said, rising slowly to his feet, you'll have to carry me. So I'll wish you-good-night, Mr. Wheels, and thank you.'

He paused at the door for the purpose of asking one other question.

'Did you ever feel-that something was going to happen-with

FELIX GAINS A CLUE.

FELIX intended to leave Lily after he had seen her safely within doors, but the old man begged him to come in. A look from Lily decided him, and the three faithful souls ascended the stairs to the old man's room. Old Wheels entering first, gave Lily an opportunity to say hurriedly to Felix,

Don't tell grandfather of my fainting, Felix. It might distress him.'

He promised her.

'Nor of what passed between you and Mr. Sheldrake.' 'Very well, Lily.'

She spoke in a whisper; she was so thrilling with exquisite sensitiveness that any harsher sound would have been a disturbance to her happy state.

'I will think of what you have said to-night, Felix; you are right, I know-you must be right.' (The unspoken words came to her: 'My heart tells me so.') 'Thank you for it, Felix, with all my heart.'

Their hands met in a tender clasp. They entered the room the next moment, and Old Wheels looked towards them with a pleased expression in his face, brought there by the circumstance of Lily and Felix lingering for a few moments in the passage. It betokened a confidence between them.

It was one o'clock before Felix took his departure. The conversation between him and Old Wheels had turned principally upon the mental disturbance of Mr. Podmore, and upon his presentiment. This made a great impression upon Felix, and, although he was almost ashamed to confess it to himself, took fast hold of his mind. He was predisposed for some such influence, from the thought of the crisis that seemed to be imminent in the life of the woman he loved. That it must come, and soon, he was convinced, and he thought to himself it would be almost a wise act to hasten it, if possible. He had quietly made it his business to acquaint himself with the nature of Mr..Sheldrake's transactions; and, notwithstanding that that gentleman was close and crafty, Felix had learned much concerning him. The knowledge sprang naturally, as it were, out of Felix's profession. He was correspondent for two country newspapers, and had managed to insert the thin end of his wedge into the wall of London journalism. Steadily and unobtrusively he was working his way, and was sanguine and confident of the future. Very many

people suppose that cunning is one of the principal specialties of wisdom, but it is not always so. A rare strength, which shows itself almost invariably in great and good results, lies in the man who is wise and not cunning-who is wise from honesty of purpose. Felix was this. He was sincere in all he did-honest in all he did. It is a pleasure to be able to indicate, even by such mere outlines as these, a character which too many persons do not believe in.

Beginning to earn his living by his pen, and being enabled to act in a certain measure independently and to take his own view of things, it was natural that he should exercise his small power in the cause of right. It was not his ambition to be the Don Quixote of literature, but he could no more resist the inclination to strike hard blows at public shams and injustice than, being naturally truthful, he could resist the inclination to tell the truth. Of course he could effect but little good. The great shield behind which imposture and knavery found shelter, and which protected dishonesty and hypocrisy, suffered but little from his attacks; but here and there he made a dent, and that was a great satisfaction to him. He was a faithful soldier, and fought with courage.

He knew that in some way Lily's brother was in Mr. Sheldrake's power, and accident revealed to him the nature of the bond between them. In his crusade against knavery, he became acquainted with the unmitigated roguery that was practised under the protection of the institution which, with a grim and ghastly humour, has been denominated the great national sport. His friend Charley, who introduced him to the columns of the Penny Whistle, was the first who opened his eyes to the knavery. It seems to be a recognised necessity that all