cliff east-enders were fine scamen was admitted; but this was held to exhaust the list of their virtues. They had always been a drunken, brawling, thriftless lot, to whom the wise and good allowed a wide berth at sea and on land (for they were both muscular and pugnacious); nor were they suffered to haul up their boats on any part of the long, curved shore, save that which adjoined their own quarter. However, for the reason parenthetically mentioned, this prohibition was probably not capable of enforcement, and if the east-end men kept strictly to the strip of beach assigned to them, it was no doubt owing to the fact that that strip enjoyed the shelter of a small natural breakwater, and was a safer place in a spring-tide than could be found elsewhere in the bay. It has already been said that John Monckton had managed to effect a great change for the better in the habits of these disreputable mariners. Many of them had forsworn strong drink; a still larger number had taken to attending church regularly; they had even, for the most part, given up beating their wives-a concession made to the parson's prejudices rather than an acknowledgment of any moral obligation; for they could not but think that a little cuffing every now and then was needful and salutary, and they were sure that the women really liked it. Yet they were willing to yield the point, because Monckton's influence over them was practically unbounded.

Indeed, a large proportion of his rough converts were amenable to his persuasions and to nobody else's. There was old Daniel Puttick, for example, who would not so much as answer when the curates spoke to him, and out of whose way Miss Kitty Greenwood was in the habit of skipping with terrified agility if she encountered him on her rounds. Daniel Puttick was what his friends called a "cur'ous-tempered man," by which they meant that he was subject to fits of capricious fury, during which his hand did not fail to fall heavily upon any member of his family who was unlucky enough to cross his path. So when Mrs. Puttick came to the Vicarage one morning, with her apron up to her eyes, to say that Dan had been "at it agin," that he had flung two plates at her head "and shevered 'm both to hatoms, sir," after which he had "locked up the gal and took the key with him, so she can't get down for to do her work at Mrs. Beer's and this a washin' day too-and I'm afraid she'll lose the place you got her, sir-and, oh dear, oh dear! whatever shall we do!"

when the above incoherent tale of woe was poured into his ears, it was clearly incumbent upon Monckton to set off and bring the offender to a better state of mind as soon as might be.

The Vicar undertook the task without any misgivings as to results, and, having sent the sorrowing wife home, betook himself to the beach, where Mr. Puttick was discovered hammering viciously at an overturned boat. He touched his hat and grunted on recognising his spiritual adviser, while Monckton seated himself upon the bottom of the boat, drew his knees up to his chin and, resting his elbows upon them, began to talk unconcernedly about herring-driving, whence he gradually led up to the peculiarities of coast navigation and of the currents of Kingscliff Bay, upon which Puttick was an acknowledged authority.

After a time, the old man, who at first had been silent and sullen, fell into the trap. He dropped his hammer, leant back against the boat, folded his arms, and embarked upon a leisurely yarn which was far from being new to his hearer. This related to the famous victory achieved by the schooneryacht Bucentaur over her rival the Fredegonde at Kingscliff regatta some years before, a victory due wholly and solely to the exceeding acuteness of Daniel Puttick. Monckton was told how Mr. Puttick had gone out in his own boat to see the race, and how the two yachts had sailed slowly past him, "beatin' up for the mark-boat, as it might be a mile and a 'arf from 'ome, agin' a very light easterly breeze, and the Freddygone she had all the best of it. But Lor' bless you, sir, I knowed that breeze wouldn't 'old, and I seed what was comin' too, and there was his lordship on deck, and thinks I to myself, I could win this race for you, my lord, if I chose to it, but I ain't agoin' to.' For why? 'Cause he had a Plymouth pilot aboard, sir. What do them Plymouth pilots want in our bay, I should like to know! But the Blue-centre she had a mate o' mine

Willyam Lee his name was-drownded about a twelvemonth ago, as you remember, sir, Well, I just 'olds up my 'and to Willyam and I whistles very soft, and he seed in a moment what I meant. So he slacks out his main-sheet, and d'rectly arter there comes a puff from the west'ard, and away goes the Blue-centre, and the Freddygone she never caught her agin'. 'Ah,' says I, that's what you gets by havin' of a Plymouth pilot, my lord. Now I could tell you another thing about one o' them Plymouth pilots, sir, as 'd

"Some of them are; but they are more or less of celebrities and, at any rate, have had great experience in managing choirs. I am afraid you would have to consider yourself lucky with a hundred a year."

"But then I could give private lessons." "Yes; you might do that. But even if you were quite fortunate and successful, you would be poor-very poor; and you are not accustomed to poverty, Brian."

"I shall have to become accustomed to it. After all, I don't know that I care very much, except for for one or two reasons; and I'm glad you haven't drowned my scheme in a shower of cold water. I was half afraid you would say that it isn't an occupation for a gentleman."

"No; I shouldn't say that, because I don't think it; but very likely others will think so and say so."

There was a short pause, after which Monckton resumed :

"It makes me very sorry to think that I am the cause of your being left destitute. It was I who dissuaded your father from tearing up his will at once. He came to consult me in an impulsive way, and I distrust impulse; so I advised him to wait for a day or two.'

"My dear fellow, don't trouble your head about that," answered Brian. "I suppose it was fated that things should fall out like this."

"Well, it was the will of God. I don't know whether you believe that; but if you do, you will find it easier to forgive your brother."

"Because he couldn't help himself, do you mean?"

"No; of course he could help himself, and we mustn't be scared by the old paradox. What I mean is that, this having happened to you independently of your will and, so far as one can see, without any fault of your own, you can accept your destiny cheerfully, which is more than he will be able to do. Does that strike you as very cold comfort?"

"To tell you the truth, it is no comfort at all," answered Brian candidly. "I know I am a gentleman; I knew that beforehand. What exasperates me is to think that he is not. In plain words, I don't forgive him and can't forgive him."

"Very well," said Monckton; "I won't press the point. You will forgive your brother in the long run just because you are a gentleman. Meanwhile, I haven't a word to say on his behalf, though I know a case

might be made out for him. Don't quarrel with him; that's all."

"No," Brian answered slowly, "I shall not quarrel with him; only the sooner I get away from Beckton the better."

Well, yes; you can't stay on there, and I don't see any other chance of employment for you at present than the one you have chosen. Come and see me again before you go. I know a lot of London parsons, and I can at least put you in the way of hearing of vacancies, if I can't do anything else."

The conversation did not last much longer. Monckton, as usual, had work to do and appointments to keep; and Brian, after taking leave of him, wandered in a somewhat irresolute fashion back towards home. He had made up his mind to depart from Kingscliff with as little delay as might be, and the question which was now agitating him was whether he should try to see Beatrice Huntley and say good-bye to her or not. Every sympathetic soul who has ever been in love will understand his quandary. His hopes were shattered utterly and finally. If, as Gilbert had warned him, Miss Huntley had been out of his reach when he had had the prospect of a fairly good position to offer her (for, when all was said, the Segraves were a fine old family and Beckton was a fine old place), it was evident that she must be doubly so now, and he shrank from the ordeal of explaining his circumstances to her. fact, he could not explain them without making it appear as if either his father or his brother had treated him with cruel harshness. Would it not, therefore, be better alike for his peace and for his dignity that he should pass quietly out of her life and her memory, making no sign? But then, again, he longed with an intense longing to see her face just once more, and surely he was entitled to that melancholy indulgence! It was not a very great privilege to claim.

In

So, being for the moment possessed of that inestimable treasure, an evenly balanced mind, he wavered to and fro, like a LiberalConservative or a Conservative-Liberal, now walking some yards in the direction of Miss Huntley's villa, now hurriedly retracing his steps; and what would have eventually become of him it is impossible to say, had not the knot of his difficulty been suddenly cut by the appearance of Miss Huntley herself.

It was just outside the town that they met, near those fields which had so often excited Mr. Buswell's cupidity; and after

they had shaken hands, Miss Huntley leant back against the posts and rails that bordered the road, in an attitude which suggested that she looked forward to a prolonged interview. This movement on her part did not escape Brian's notice nor fail to rejoice his heart, notwithstanding an embarrassment which she appeared to share in some degree. He wished she would say something; but she did not, and it was he who at length broke the silence by thanking her for a beautiful wreath which she had sent to be laid upon his father's coffin. Perhaps that was as good a way of opening the conversation as any that he could have adopted, since it relieved her of the awkwardness which most people unfortunately feel in mentioning the dead, and enabled her to speak simply and kindly of the old man whose last words had been addressed to her.

"I have thought so often since that, if we had not lost our presence of mind, we might have saved him," she said, "and I have wondered whether you thought so too. I remember nothing except running away and hearing the crash; but one can see now how it must have happened. Of course he could not get up as quickly as we did, and if I had only thought of that, instead of flying like a coward

"I am sure you could not have saved him; you would only have been killed too," interrupted Brian; "there wasn't a second to spare. Besides, I suppose it was bound to happen. Monckton says it was the will of God."

"Oh, does he?" exclaimed Miss Huntley with an air of disappointment and disgust. "What a stupid, commonplace speech to make! I should have expected something better than that from Mr. Monckton."

"But if that is what he believes?" 'Well, if he said it sincerely-only then he might as well be a Mussulman at once. And yet I don't know; possibly he is right. But I'm glad I didn't hear him say it; it sounds so painfully like one of Clementina's remarks. Clementina can always bring a beautiful spirit of resignation to bear upon the misfortunes of her neighbours."

"That isn't like Monckton, at all events. Whatever he may be, he is no humbug." "No, I don't think he is; I beg his pardon. Am I not one of his disciples?" There was another interval of silence, during which Brian scraped the mess off the railings with the point of his stick and wondered how he could best impart the information that he must go out into the world and

seek his fortune; but he did not have to cudgel his brains long, for by-and-by Miss Huntley said hesitatingly

"I have heard a rumour that everything has been left to your brother. Is it true?" Brian nodded. "Yes," he answered briefly, "it is quite true."

"Oh, poor Esau! Do you remember my warning?"

"Yes, I remember; but I think it is only fair to my poor, dear old father to say that this has been in a sort of way a mistake. That is, if he had lived longer he would have made a different will. This one was drawn up hastily when he had very good reason to be displeased with me."

"If there has been a mistake, it can be set right," said Miss Huntley quickly.

66

Oh, no; it is too late for that now," answered Brian. And then, to divert her attention from a dangerous topic, he began unfolding his plans for the future, representing them in as optimistic a light as he could, and declaring, truthfully enough, that the career of a successful organist had greater attractions for him than any other.

The scheme took Miss Huntley's fancy : she was not, apparently, one of those who deem the career in question unworthy of a gentleman. "After all," said she, "I am not sure that Jacob has the best of it. You will become famous now and compose oratorios and be made a baronet and all sorts of fine things, instead of vegetating down at Kingscliff all your days, as you had every inclination to do. And then you will always have that nice old Manor House to escape to when you want to be rid of the world for a time. I think I am rather glad that you have been made the victim of this-mistake."

Here was a prophecy of a much more encouraging nature than Monckton's; but it was somewhat painful to Brian, because he could not help perceiving its absurdity. Yet perhaps it was as well that she should take things in that way. He smiled; and after a while she asked him when he proposed to go to London.

"Oh, very soon," he replied; "in a day or two, at the outside, I think. I want to get away.

"That is highly flattering to the friends. whom you are so anxious to leave. Allow me to thank you in their name."

"It is Beckton that I am anxious to leave; not anything or anybody else, Heaven knows!" said Brian.

He spoke so seriously and the language of his eyes was so plain that she became serious

also. "I see," she said. And then, with a little sigh, "Well, good-bye; don't forget us all."

There was no excuse for prolonging the interview. Brian held her hand for a moment, took one long last look at the beautiful face which he hardly expected ever to see again and, murmuring some unintelligible words, turned away. But he had not taken half-adozen steps before Miss Huntley called him back.

"By the way," said she, with a certain assumption of carelessness (because the solemnity of his leave-taking had startled her a little), "if you remember my existence somewhere about April next, you might look me up and report progress. I shall be found at 95, Park Lane, under the fostering care of Clementina, who admires genius and will be proud to make your acquaintance."

Brian hesitated. "Thank you," he replied, "you are very kind; but I am afraid I shall not be exactly-that is, you know an organist

hardly mixes in the kind of society to which you belong."

"Really," said Miss Huntley, "I should suspect you of meaning to be insultingly ironical if I didn't know that you were incapable of irony. It is quite true that I am admitted into the most distinguished circles, and it is not less true that my grandfather was a respectable artisan. At least, I trust that he was respectable; but I couldn't affirm it upon oath. Pray, don't come and see me if you think you will be bored; but if you fail to appear I shall know the reason.'

"I will come, then-if I can," answered Brian gravely.

So she waved her hand to him and walked swiftly away, leaving an aching heart behind her. A hopeless lover is a difficult man to please; and although, perhaps, Brian was not so selfish as to wish that Miss Huntley should be in love with him, her friendly indifference gave him nearly as much pain as if he had been.

APRIL has come!

And that pure green