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P..ST PUBLISHED,] ADc. the ufiEAT MILL-STREET MYSTERY. By ADELINE SERGEANT. A* T tan » °^'s Wife," Roy's Repen- Ce» Deveril's Diamond," Under alse Pretences," &c. &c., [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] .1 OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.] flveet un?''°rJUE: Chaptebs I and II.—In Mill- 'n<J ei», ec^aPe,» a disreputable locality, a *^c6t the Rev- Francis Helmont, and a >of an aif> Richard Eyre, are standing in Trent th« oe!nPty house. Stephen Eyre, a captain 'nf0rj ~rVati°n Army, has preceded theua on the had •« on that Jess, a former lover of Stephen's. a^v* o«r in.an back a £ am aild "he was with I'ofc n 20, Mill-street." The two h;id come in >0«ldrt u* fearinS that Stephen, in his fury. 'otne „° ,he m.an wl)0 had robbed him of his love' frJend r!fT°U8 injur-r- Helmont fears that an old hid v.' George Eastwood, was the one who street aTI Jessie Armstrong, and he and the arx W-aiUng for news °f the ?. JrSie" *re,en"y a fierce heard overhead and Jessie is seen men Sp m struggling with one or mor* en Presently, as young Dick rush s into o, house and mounts the stairs, the boJv of Stephen is seen hanging by his hands from the window siil. Then someone is seen pushin» the f uF1 »T" fr°m lhe siU and Stcphen'Eyre falls a dull, heavy mass on to the earth beneath Poor blind Helmont feels over the warm body of th!f -rjo" ",Un' and iec°s:ni^s with his filers honli0 Wien Eyre. In the meantime the nti^h- boiia10- fen rouset^ arid a search inside the foS ln The dpad b0 of Di^ Eyre is one quanllty of debris, but no traze of anv- ^ontrLv discovered. Time passes on and Hel- is i0 a*5*?™8 a letter from George Eastwood, who fm^r' a,n A'3 apparent t,,at hf has been v n ,? and for S0!ne tiu,e- Shortly after- 8'1B t!,rr-Holmont receives a visit from a woman. 61,e uT ls h!m Uiat her name is Joss Armstrong nnd st»ni,„ ^?me 10 £ ive herself up for the murder of w«n Lyre. ^tory.—Chapters I. and TI.—The Rev. F. friend 'he blind parson, is walking with his ^stw'a ??r8e Eastwood, in Rag F-iir, Whitochapel. lll0<3el8Q » an arti9t'and 's on ^ie i°°k out for hriiij meets with Jess Armstrong, whose lla'r captivateg his artistic eye. He f'^dio for her to visit him in his #r lovP, excites the jealousy of Stephen Eyre, Cjj AND — Stephen Eyre, Jess'6 *"<3 fran. Ter»'s annoyed at the visit to the studio <nstiin„ £ te,is her so, something like a quarrel *?. Uit"']?;, i. reader is introduced in Chapter IV. JVa1a Bpi ood Jamily, George Eastwood and 8 8Uep(J,1-0nt being engaged to be married at 'r' loV« 10.°f °ld Col. Eastwood, but neither h^aSemiu^rit other, and plan to evade the PAllT T. ^APTliR y.—Diana's Choice. HE warning cameo to late. Colonel East- wood had evi- dently heard the words spo- lien by Diana. Indeed, it seemed to George, when reflecting after- wards upon the matter, that she had decidedly raised her voice in uttering them. Was it possible that she bad pur- posely taken this way of de- livering him out of his difiicul- i 0t>el ties? °f1>l1' reSnl a W00^ looked furious. ITis *WXl>I,e«sina» featuiV)s had a singular power to eht f soorn and anger, and at that V»i?0l)trol v°°k^ as if he scarcely knew hovr lih e^ent nxna»elf. Rut he did restrain the a ^0r<if' that evidently rose to his le&! the iCW ^^ites, at least. He made a llnVe w^° pushed his wheel chair to ^ia'r«an ^en> ^ts eyes turned first to ,avi^ then upon his nephew he he& 18 the meaning of the P°Hte now 'n tones of Sjjj,' bejr tieo ^iana is quite plain, I think, in» f?e con]ri 'er^ering before the embarrassed °pen his mouth. '•! am declin- Colo« 8iid it. n< ^r,c^e Henry, that is all." a e''s Wra+u a charming smile, but the Pray Was n°t abated. i ^vhat do you mean by refusing I hi- 6 a^Wa7s intended you to marry *i»h you up at Wychford that see y ^im- He has fulfilled my "the p8' an(i ha8 asked yon to be his tre ')]One] fortunately did not wait r 9» VVby cannot you com pi v with fV&Me-jT 's n°t fair," began t1}>1 iQous^> Diana laid a re- 1JlUe sn0t ^P°n his arm, and interrupted ■k "ben ^vacity that he could not con- >oUl, °U c^e,cb- inard,y expect me to comply with ^'t CA-a ll?fttter so important to me ittcide with my own," she said. It is awfully uncomplimentary of me to say bo; is it not George, dear ? You know how much I like George a a brother, Uncle Henry, but that is a very different thing from marry- ing him." I will speak to you again on the subject," said the Colonel severely, and in the mean- time you can reflect on the possible conse- quences to your mother and yourself of this disobedience." He made a sign to the page, 'who was hovering in the distance, that he wished to be wheeled back to the honse, and George was left facing Diana and heartily wishing himself out of the whole business, Does he mean that for a threat he said. il It does not matter what he means it for; he will not hurt me." "But he can bluster and storm If Oh, he is always a gentleman in hia angriest moods, and I can put up with an expression of his disappointment. Don't you see that it is rather flattering to me ? Dear Diana, it is all very well for you to speak of it so lightly, but you know that it will be very disagreeable to you and to your mother if he is really angry. He might even Turn us out ? I have thought of that. I have another string to my bow." It must not be. I shall go to my uncle and tell him-" 11 lvhat will you tell him f" said Diana, laughing in a somewhat mirthless fashion. "That I am like the historical Miss Biddy Baxter, who { refused a man before he axed her.' No, you must not do that, George; see what an undignified position you would place me in. You must leave the matter where it stands." It seems to me," said the young man, botly, that I am in the more undignified position of the two. You are really bearing the blame for me-" "Not much blame, is it?" asked Diana, Pitill laughiiig. No, George, you must leave it in my hands, now that matters have got so far. I assure you I know what I am doing. You cannot, in fact, without a great want of generous feeling "—she now spoke seriously- betray that I declined your offer before you made it. That is a confession which would brand me in Colonel Eastwood's eyes as a woman without any delicacy of feeling at all. You must not say a word about it." I am very sorry, Diana Well, so am I very sorry," she said, brightly that we have mismanaged things so (leadfully; but it would have been far worse if you had been persuaded into asking me to marry you, or I hRd been persuaded into saying yes, when neither of us cared I for the other more than a brother and sister ought to oare. We are brother and ¡( .-JOO sister, George—true friends and comrades— and such we shall remain, I trust, until the last days of our life. She held out her hand with a frank and queenly gesture. George took it and pressed it to his lips. "Ah, that is not the way brothers treat their sisters," Diana eaid, with a light laugh hut she turned away from him to hide that her eyes were full of tears. They walked to the house together, almost in silence. They were close to the door, when George said at last, in a low tone, 1 am deeply grateful to you, Diana." For refusing you r" she said. You know that 1 don't mean that. In help- ing me—giving me your friendship—your sympathy. 1 need it. 1 wish-l wish that I could tell you all." Tell me all and let me help you more," she said softly. He shook his head. "J don't know how things will turn out. 1 cannot tell you or anyone just yet." "Oh, George!" said the girl, impulsively. (I I hope she is worthy of you I hope she will make you a good wife." lIe flushed a deep, swarthy red to the very roots of his soft, dark hair, and looked decidedly miserable. Diana saw in a moment that there was something wrong, but fhe did not like to question him, though if she bad persevered he might perhaps have told her all. She hesitated, he kept silence, and the chance was gone. Lord Hexham met their, at the door and looked suspiciously from one to the other, much as Colonel Eastwood had done. II is expression was sullen. He had not seen his host since the Colonel had interrupted the young people's conversation in the garden, and he had good reason to believe that George had made Miss Helmont an offer of marriage and been accepted. His face, therefore, was overcast with gloom. re you going, Lord ilexbam srid Diana, in some surprise. I thought you would stay and dine with us." « No, thanks. Have to catch a train-an appointment. muttered the surly peer. I will walk down the avenue with you, said Diana, graciously. H George, will you find my mother and tell her where I have gone? How lovely the lights are now that the sun is sinking It is curious to see how completely a woman can mystify a man. George East- wood and Lord Hexham were both completely swayed by Diana's tone and manner. She had hitherto treated Lord II exham wi th cold- ness, and had not in any way encouraged him to pay his addresses to her. And now she smiled upon him and spoke in a warm and friendly way which was not usual with her. George wondered what this change of front I portended, and Lord Ilexhara did not know whether to be more auprised or delighted. < George went dutifully enough, to gire Diana's me!&e to her mother: and he ( found Mrs. Iiehnont ia a state of remark- i able nervousness and dismay. > "Gone down the avenue with Lord Ilex- ham I" repeated the mother, in a puzzled 1 tone. But what does it all mean pH "What does what mean?" asked George, 1; trying, not very successfully, to laugh. h All this mystery and nonsense, I have ) no patience with it," said Mrs. Helmont, J indignantly. Your uncle talked to Lord Hexham for a little time, and then ht; went i off to find you and Diana—he seemed so fidgety about you that we were obliged to let 1 him go—and then he came bacli from the < garden looking very angry, and has gone J straight to his room and shut himself up there; and I did not know what to do with < Lord Hexham at all. And now Diana is walking down the avenue with him, you say Why are you not with them ?'' Why should I be with them ?" queried George. < Looking at the little dark-eyed woman, he < perceived that she was in a state of great excitement. Her features worked with agita- < tion, and her eyes were filling with tears. She was sitting on a sofa in a pretty little morn- ( ing-room generally appropriated to her use, with some needlework in her hands but her ) hands shook so much that she could hardly 1 put the needle into the stuff. She was quite alone, for the Blakeneys had gone home. ] if Dear auntie," said George, sitting down J beside her, and speaking with the gentle, é caressing manner natural to him in his inter- course with women, "I do not understand i now what you mean. What ought we to have done or left undone this afternoon ? Every- one seems a little out of tune." "It is not for me to say, George," said 1 Mrs. Helmont, primly. I Then it is for Diana and me to speak, I suppose." Mrs. Helmont dropped her work and looked J at him. Is it true ? is it true ?" she cried, almost i wildly. Oh, George, have you done what! your uncle wished ? Oh, thank God But—Diana won't have me, aunt," said George, feeling that there was something a sneaking and unworthy in his manner of put- 1 ting the case, and yet not knowing what else t to say. ( George t She says she will not marry nie," eaid I George, looking down. t Mrs. Helmont's face might at that moment have served a painter as a study in emotion of various kinds. Astonishment, incredulity, I anger, dismay, passed over it in turn. She could not speak for some moments, and when 1 J i she found voice, it was only to exclaim, in ] agitated tones, 1 That is not true. She could not say so. j She loves you too well. It is impossible." i She loves me as a sister," George answered. But she says that nothing would j induce her to marry me." 1 You must have offended her in some ] way. She does not mean what she says," returned Mrs. Ilclmont tremblingly. You I do not know her as t do, George. Leave her to me." i; You wish for such a mat-i-ia -),e, do you, aunt p" said Geoige, wonderingly. "You!, never mentioned it to me before." How could IP How could I speak before I knew whether it would please your uncle 1 have wished for it all my life. Not for my j own sake-oh, no; but for hers. If your 1 marriage came about I knew that Diana would never have to suffer as I bad done." < George took the poor woman's trembling j hand. I did not know you had had to suffer, untie," he said, pityingly. Something like a j pang of remorse was shooting through his;; mind. .1 Oh, ye*, my dear, I bad a good deal to I bear while I was younger. You are too young to remember—you were a boy at school when I first came here. I am only your uncle's cousin, you know—not a first cousin, either some people would say hardly a rela- tion at all. I married Major Helmont of the j Artillery. He was a good husband to me ] while he lived, but he died when Francis was a child and left me without a penny. Ah, my dear, may you never know what it is to hear your children crying for bread! < when you have none to give them. I could! get no woi-k-I had no money—I thought that we should starve. It, seemed to me that I I bad better throw myself and my children over Blackt'riar's Bridge than take the only « path that was open to women in such straits. j But I did not know what to do. And one night I went out with my children clinging I to my skirts, thinking that I would end it all 5 —and a gentleman saw my face and asked me what was the matter—' could he help me 1 I was frightened at first; but then I saw he spoke simply out of kindness, and I told him story. Atid--aiid-it was your uncle, | 1 George your uncle, Henry Eastwood." < "1 never knew all this," murmured he young man. j i No, he was too liilld to tell my story. lie j i gave me money and made me buy clothes and food, and then, when we looked respectable. again, he brought us all down here and installed 1 me as his housekeeper. As you know, he sent ] Francis to school and college, and he had Diana educated in the best possible way. He i may be hasty at times, but he has the most ( generous of hearts." £ If He has, indeed," said George slowly. < 1 And from the first he made up his mind," said Mrs. Helmont, eagerly, that you would narry Diana. He set his heart upon it. I I lon't know how often he has spoken of it to lie. It has been the dream of years. And vhiit he will do if she refuses I cannot tell." I But he will be just-he will do nothing. What are you afraid of ?" 11 Oh, George," said the mother, laying her land upon his arm, I- suppose he turns us out into the cold world again 1 do not mind for riyself, but for her-for her! I dream at light, sometimes, that we are wandering through the London streets again, cold and biungry, and afraid; and-I am not so strong is I used to be, George—and I wake crying irith my heart beating as if it would burst rat of my body, and my limbs trembling for :ear, and aching with weariness! What will become of us if he is angry and turns us 3Ut ?" "But, my dear aunt, Diana is not i child now. You would never have to support her or yourself, even if the irorat came to the worst, and my uncle iid turn you out! There is Francis to iepend upon. 1 should be always ready to ;ee that you came to no harm. And Diana is juite well able to take care of herself. You :!lust take courage and everything will turn )ut well." I have been so careful all these years," moaned Mrs. Helmont. "I have never con- :radicted her uncle or opposed him in the east, I knew that I owed my very life to tiim. Nobody can say that I was not grate- 'u1, George. And now this girl overthrows ill my plans—although she knows as well as [ do what she owes to him-and she refuses so marry you. Oh, it is shameful of her-it is shameful! and it will break my heart." She covered her face and burst into tears, (vhile George, standing up, turned to the window and looked out, with a frown upon lis face. What was Diana thinking of ? he wondered. Why bad she contrived matters io unskilfully ? There was no help for it 1e could not keep silence any longer; he nust clear her, and confess that he had never isked her to marry him after all. He turned -oiind again, with the words upon his lips, and )aheid.-Diana herself. She had entered the room very quietly, ma was looking at her mother. Her face ,ras a little pale, and her lips quivered once or ;wice, but she seemed perfectly calm. She :ameto Mrs. Helmont's side and put her arm 'ound her mother's slender shoulders, shaken yy the storm of sobs. Some incoherent words: iso&ped the poor woman's lips as she felt that gentle touob, Ungrateful! hard-hearted cruel George leard her say. "No, mother, dear, I am not that," Diana inswerrd, very gently, but I have chosen my Iwn lot in life and I am going to be happy in 1.1 do not wish to marry George, mother and think that after all neither you nor UnrL., lenvy will be displeased with me for my lecision. I have promised this afternoon to Ie Lord Hexham's wife." CIIAI'TEU VI.—LOYERS. While George Eastwood was spending the >almy hours of that fine May afternoon at lis uncle's house at Wychford, a certain girl, of whom he thought more often than he poke, was sewing feverishly in a little back oom of a gaunt old house in a London slum. Jess Armstrong's beauty had assumed a ieiv character in the last few weeks. The ubtle sweetness of her eyes and lips was nore pronounced than ever. There was a aint bloom on her delicate cheeks, and her mtline was a little less spare than it used to )e. Her hair, instead of being twisted into m untidy knot, ill-brushed, and ill-fastened, fras arranged with some attempt at elaborate Iressing around her shapely head. And ler gown, although coarse and badly' ilting, was neater and cleaner than t had been in former days, and ,vas fastened by a pretty little silver brooch at :he collar. Jess was improved, and the youth of Baldwin's-court and Mill-street had begun to ind out the fact. There were now no more jeers at her carroty hair," since a gentleman had been found to admire it and to pay her or painting it, details of which Mrs. Flint! was wont to boast in her less sober moments —Jess's market value, so to speak, having one up. A daughter or a grand-daughter with bright red hair was now looked at specu- atively by calculating relatives, for if Jess Armstrong's locks commanded money, why ilso should not tha locks of other people ? Some mothers went so far as to seek out Eastwood's studio and offer him their off- spring as models, but they received 10 little sncouragement for their pains that they soon iiscontmued their attempts. Jt was the new element in Jess's life thai had caused her to change her daily work. Ilitherto she had been fairly content to. brudge after her grandmother in the street, sarry the heavy basket of cheap flowers from zorner to corner, ask the passers-by to buy » posy," and guard the flowers while her grandmother refreshed herself at the nearest public-house. It was she, also, who used to get up at four o'clock in the morning and go )n a weary tramp to Covent Garden market' for the day's provision of flowers, and it was; she upon whom the somewhat unpleasant duty devolved of fetching home the venerable Mrs. Flint in a state of partial or complete intoxi- nation ateleven o'clock at night. Small wonder,! Iherefore, that Jess's face used to look too long aud white, with hollows of purple shadow ibout the eyes, a listless droop of the curved lips and a gradual sinking in of the cheek-lir.e, when seen in profile, which betokened hunger uid weariness. But since Jess had been to Mr. Eastwood's j studio, a good deal of all this had been --h I changed. lie had questioned her from time to time ibout her habits, and had been first shocked md then angry to find what was the general course of her life. He had insisted vehemently ,hat she should no longer go to Covent. harden, or trudge the wet streets with her grandmother, and when she objected simply ibat her grandmother would beat her if she did lot go, be had felt inclined to call down the .iri,al,h of heaven upon Mrs. Flint's untidy iiead. But since this mode of proceeding would have been useless as well as violent, he jetbought himself of another way. He called 3n Mrs. Flint, and represented to her that when Jcse "ose so early in the morning and trent out in the wet she caught cold and made hei iiose red, or grew tired and was too pale, so that he could not paint her picture jn these occasions, and would soon be forced to dispense with her services altogether. Mrs. Flint was alarmed at this prospect, for Jess's 'services" were. well paid, and she professed, yith a whine, that she was quite willing to io without Jess's assistance if she was (f paid iccordin' A bargain was struck accordingly. Mva. Flint was to employ someone else, if •

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necessary, to buy her flowers at the market, and was to be paid half-a-crown ft week by Mr. Eastwood as long as he wanted Jess for his pictures. And, privately, Mr. Eastwood was beginning to think that he not only wanted Jess for his pictures-he wanted her al rogether. After a time-it was when she had fainted one day from sheer inanition—he took care that she should always have a good meal when she came to him. Sometimes Mrs. Fogg pro- vided it, and on these occasions Jess could hardly eat for nervousness; and sometimes he took her to a coffee shop or a oook shop, and made her order anything sheliked. A few meals of this kind soon made a difference in Jess'f appearance. The shell-like bloom on her cheek; the dimple that had lately appeared on the left side of her chin, were watched by George with unfeigned satisfaction. He wal never tired of watching her. There was fascination for him in all her looks and ways he was never weary of wondering bow this dehoate wind-flower had been blown upon the heap of refuse where he found it. Her mother had been Mr*. Flint's daughter, her father-no one knew her father, but it was vaguely reported that he was II a gentleman." Perhaps it was from him that she had inherited her white skin, her long delicate nngera, her naturally dainty ways. These are traits, George reflected, that generally do come by inheritance. Probably Jess had good blood in her veins. He was pleased to hear that she had taken to needlework instead of to flower selling. He did not realise that if the needlework were persisted in day after day it would be far worse for Jess's youth and beauty than be former occupation. Man-like, he did not remember that needlework was exhausting to the nervous system, or that a free, out-of-dooc life would inevitably be much missed by a girl' who had grown accustomed to it. Needlework was associated in his mind with visions of silks and canvas; muslia embroidery and oross-stitch, and he would have been horrified if he had found that Jess was sewing sacks, or men's shirts, or roughly-made ulsters, at something like tenpence a day. And the belter food and frequent excursions to his studio kept Jess in health and good spirits for a time. It was a great pleasure to her to go to bit atudio. He always had her "draped," u b" taught her to call it, in some beautiful audi striking fashion. He enlisted Mr., Fogfff aid in devising costumes for her. lie drew her in every dress, in every attitude, that 4 could think of. In the richest silks and velvets -hired sometimes for the oooasion, ot loosely run up" by Mrs. Fogg—Jess used to pass hours of unalloyed bliss; and it was very sadly that she divested herself of her finery at the end of the sitting and trudged away home again in her faded, ill-fitting cotton frock. It was impossible that this state of things should last. Prudence governed George East. wood for a time, but prudence failed at last, and on one mild, warm day in early spring (It when a young man's idle fanoy lightly turns to thoughts of love") he, as he after- wards phrased it, lost his head." His pioture for the Academy had been sent in, and he had said that he wanted to make a study of her in the hackneyed charaoter-not quite so hackneyed then as it is now-of the lily maid of Astolat." He told her to dress herself in a gown that Mrs. Fogg had, witb many grumblings, made to fit her; but Mrt. Fogg was not present. She bad been kept 4.t home that day by a severe cold in the head," and neither Jess nor George Eattwood greatly regretted her absence. The artist seemed unable to settle to hii work that morning. He complained several times of the light, although one mifht have thought that this at least was perfect, seeing that the blinds were all properly arranged and that the sky was clear and blue. H* altered Jess's pose several times, and then he began to sketch, and paused, and began oncle more, until even Jess wondered a little whai was wrong. She did not show her wonder. She felit with the instinct of a born slave, that to it would displease her master. She stood silent where he had placed her, her loryi bright hair unbo-nd and flowing to her knee, her hands clasped before her, the long wkit4 dress, embroidered here and there in gold; falling about her in straight folds itot un- worthy of the sculptor's art. Eastwood turned an I looked at her. His face had grown very pale. "I must alter the position of your hands < little," he said, suddenly. He threw down his brushes and walker over to the platform on which she stood. Siuo let him move her bands about for a minute oi two without noticing anything unusual; then the bega:j to feel that his hands were trem* bling, and that he was kneeling on the pla form before her instead of standing. A vagul) shyness impelled her to draw her hands away. The next moment they were seized and pas- sionately kissed, and then his arms were round her waist and he was looking up into her face with eyes that told their own story. You know that I love you," be whll- pered. Jess gazed at him without answering. Her face began to quiver and to blush. You love me, too P" he said. She would not answer; .she only tried to getaway. He unloosed his trms. '• Have I been mistaken P" he said- -"Don't ou care for me, Jess ? Oh, mj darling, yoa must love me, you must care for me I Tell rue tiiat you love me a little bit 1" ■« Oh, I don't know, said Jess. Are you sore you don't know he ivor- mured. Think, and tell me again, LooJS at me, sweet." She looked, and a vary faint little smil-J began to curl the oorners of her moatb; ftfnt little pink flusa stule up to her pal .ot; cheeks. George tiastwood's victor." Tfc assured. If yu don't love me w .,? he saVj foeH, 3