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|J [*HK EIGHT OF TRANSLATION 13 RESERVED.] IE ART &SCIENCE STORY OF THE PRESENT TIME. BY WILKIE COLLINS. ¡ CHAPTER I. •w»e weary old nineteenth century had advanced "V the lasftwenty years of its life. Howards two o'clock in the afternoon, Ovid (of the Roval College of Surgeons) stood at Window of 4)is consulting room in London, "^Ug out at the summer sunshine, and the quiet "gy street. IP e 'la(i received a warning, familiar to the busy of our time—the warning froip overwrought which counsels rest after excessive work. oin ? Prosperous career before him, he had been only thirty-one years of age) to ask °lie;igue take charge of his practice, and to the brain which lie had cruelly wearied a te k°j s°we months to come. On the next day it „ r arr»nged to embark for the Mediterranean friend's yacht. a active man, devoted heart and soul to his '«ssi°n, is not a man who can learn the happy °f being idle at a moment's notice. Ovid tfonH mere of looking out of window, and Jeering what he should do next, more than he II Patience to endure. e turned to his study table. If he had pos- 1^7^* a wife to look after him, he would have reminded that he and his study table had j?\n& in common, under present circumstances, deprived of conjugal superintendence, broke through his own rules. His restless fcri^ Unlocked a drawer, and took out a manu- I QP- Work on medicine of his own writing. surety," he thought, I may finish a chapter, be- j|. R° to sea to-morrow." [oijf'8 head, steady enough while he was only J1"1!! out of window, began to swim before he i got to the bottom of a page. The last Ben- in of the unfinished chapter alluded to a ™*tter of fact which he had not yet verified. In of any sort, he was a. patient man toulri u1811 resource. The necessary verification SureLr8 accomPl'shed by a visit to the College of situated in the great square called Inn-fields. Here was a motive for a 0lll *T"With an occupation at the end of it, which fcXar*\nVo?ved a question to a Curator and an «Unation of a Specimen. He locked up his "^script, and set forth for Lincoln's Inn-fields. CHAPTER II. en two friends happen to meet in the street, ever look back along the procession of circumstances which has led them both, the starting point of their own houses, to the sP°t, at the same time ? Not one man in thousand has probably ever thought of making Qe .,a fantastic inquiry as this. And conse- nt!y lot one man in ten thousand, living in ^t of reality, lias discovered that he is also f ln the midst of romance. ^°8erTM moment when the young surgeon £ olj} the door of his house, he was walking blind- beta/?11 his way to a patient in the future, who was reach!!i«ly still a stranger to him. He never ri College of Surgeons. He never em- (Tn his friend's yacht. What were the 'hath which turned him aside from the course trtojj had in view ? Nothing but a series of exjw ^mstances, occurring in the everyday .If.e lence of a man who goes out for a walk. khet had only reached the next street, when ttje J^t of the circumstances presented itself in Kg jjj^Pe of a friend's carriage which drew up at Wshv • bright benevolent face, encircled by J white whiskers, looked out of the window, Gs a arty voice asked him if he had completed Uj. J^ngements for a long holiday. Having re- to this, Ovid had a question to put, on his «S°w is our patent, Sir Richard? <( Vut of danger." Si la? what do the other doctors say, now ? *'v hard laughed. They say it's my luck." « vt°t 9onvinced yet ?" °t in the least. Who has ever succeeded in tour fools ? Let's try another subject. Is «(»Mother reconciled to your new plans?" hardly tell you. My mother is in a ?* indescribable agitation. Her brother's has been found in Italy. And his may arrive in England at a moment's « ^nmarried ? Sir Richard asked slily. « don't know." Op^?y money ?" 3y smiled—not cheerfully. '"Do you think ble -r m.°ther would be in a state of indescrib- gi aptati°n if there was not money ?" era lchard was one of those obsolete elderly who quote Shaksj>eare. Ah, well," he ■ah'' ur niother is like Kent in 4 King Lear 8 too old to learn. Is she as fond as ever of and j 85 keen as ever after a bargain ?" He D v a eard out of the carriage window. "I _iUs(t seen an old patient of mine," he re- re?r>. in whom I feel a friendly interest. She wnng from business by my advice; and she We, of all the people m the world, to help » getting rid of some wonderful rem- IffJw! 'an alarniing sacrifice!' My kind fer ri^' your mother-and there's a chanje for • One last word, Ovid. Don't be in too great urry to return to work you have plenty of .re time before you. Look at my wise dog N orJ the front seat, and learn from liim to be lie and happy." • j6 S^ent physic:an had another companion, fhisdog. A friend, bound his way, had knff a sca' 'n the "carriage. Who is that M»me young man ?" the friend asked as they ^veaway. 15 is the only son of a relative of mine, dead ^ny years since," Sir Richard replied. Don't « £ v,that J'1'11 have seen him." «« Jfay I ask why ?" .116 has not yet reached the prime of life and is on the way—already far on the way—to be °f the foremoi-t men of his time. With a p i- '"rtune, he has worked as few surgeons K who have their bread to get by their ession. The money comes from his laf.e His mother has married again. The Ho husljand is a lazy, harmless, stupid old .j. ^nauied Gallilee possessed of one small ad l0"—Hfty thousand pounds, grubbed up in e* There are two little daughters, by the ly j^^rriuge. With such a stepfather as I «th and, between ourselves, with a tb er.ho ha; rather more than her fair share 'r> v ^ea'ous> envious, aud money-loving pro- 8 of humanity, my friend Ovid is not rted by family influences from the close pur- II of his profession. You will tell me, he may rry- Well if he gets a good wife she will be 'rcu^nstance in his favour. But, so far as I iW' he is not that sort of man. Cooler, a deal er, with women than I am—though I am old vi-r1 he his father. Let us get back to his •Sessional i.rosi.ccts. You heard him ask me <;u-t a patient ? eyy good. Denth was knocking hard at that leiit's door when I called Ovid into consultation h lnytelf and with two other doctors who °red with me. It was one of the very rare JQ which the old practice of bleeding was, to the only treatment to pursue. I never .a hjni that this was the point in dispute '.peen me and the other men-—and they said „/Ui"K, on their side, at my express request. He i time to exaaiiue and think and he saw e chance of saving the patient by venturing on 'e Use of the lancet, as plainly us I d.d—with my y years' experience to teach ms! A young aa with that capacity for discovering the of disease, and with that Priority to the trammels of routine in applying Ie treatment, has no common medical career be- re him. His holiday will set his health right in -xt to no time. I see nothing in his way, a e«ent—not even a woman But," said Sir •cnard, with the explanatory wink of one eye, 'Ciiliar (iike quotations from Shaksp-aare) to per ns of the ob-elete old time, we know better all to forcast the weather, if a petticoat infln- Ice appaare on the horizon. One prediction, IWever, I do not risk. If his mother buys any that l.-ice—J know who will get the best of the wgain 1" The conditions under which the old doctor was illing to assume the character of a prophet never curred. Ovid lemembered that he was going la.V on a long voyage—and Ovid was a. good n' He bought some of the lace, as a present to s mother at parting and, most assuredly,' he >t the wor.it of the bargain. His shortest way back to the straight course, )m which he had deviated 111 making his pur- lase, led him into a by-street, near the flower ld iruit market of Oovent-garden. Here, he et wiih the second in number of the circum- i\nce3 which attended his walk. H3 found him- If eLe uutered by an intolerably filthy smell. .-Tii j market was not out of the direct way to lnc<>!a"s lun-tields. He fled from the smell to le flo.very and frllitr perfumes IIf Cuvent-g-arden, 'd completed the disinfecting process by means •A basket of strawberries. hy did a poor ragged little girl, carrying a g. b.sby, look with such longing eyes at the diciom fruit that, as a kind-hearted man, he >io alternative but to make her a presenfof e strawberries ? Why did two dirty boy-friends hers appear immediately afterwards with news Punch in a neighbouring street, and le-td the tie girl away with them ? Why did these 'o ne ,v circumstances inspire him with a ir tlMt the boys might take the strawberries vay from the poor child, burdened as she ItS with a baby almost as big as heisjlf? When 5 suffer from overwrought nerves we are easily sturbed hy small misgivings. The idle man of varied mind followed the friends of the street ama to see what happened, forgetful of the allege of Surgeons and finding a. new fund of Ittseiuent in himself Arrived ill the neighbouring street, he dis- Vered that the Punch performance had oomo aa end—like some other dramatic performances higher pretensions—for want of a paying audi- ce. He waited at a certain distance, Watching « children. Tdis doubts had done them an in- sfcice. The boys only said, Give us a taste." nd the libet.al little girl rewarded their good uduct. An equitable and friendly division the strawberries was made in a quiet corner. VVhere—always excepting the case of a miser or Millionaire—is the man to be found who could •ve returned to the pursuit of his own affairs, 'der these circumstances, without encouraging e practice of the social virtnes by a present ef a w pennies ? Ovid was not that man. Pitting back in his breast pocket the bag in »icli he was accustomed to carry small eoins for *all charities, his hand touched something which It like the envelope of a letter. He took it out looked at it with an expression of annoyance id surprise—and once more turned aside from 6 direct way to Lincoln's Inn-fields. The envelope contained his last prescription. *Ving occasion to cousult the Pharmacopoeia," had written it at home, and had promised to lid it to the patient immediately. In e absorbing interest of making his prepara- ms for leaving England, it had remained for- ttán in his pocket tor nearly two days. The 18 means of setting this uulucky error right, Ibont further delay, was to deliver his pre- fij>tion himself, and to break through his own for the second time, by attending to a case illness—purely an act of atonement. the patient live nearly -o^pogitQ to I the British Museum. In this northward direction he now set his face. He made his apologies, rmd gave his advice- and, getting out again iuto the street, tried onco more to shape his course for the College of Sur- geons. Passing the walled garden of the British Museum, he looked towards it—and paused. What had stopped him this time ? Nothing but a tree, fluttering its bright leares in the faint summer air. A marked change showed itself in his face. 'I The moment before, he had been passing in review the curious little interruptions which had attended his walk, and had wondered humorously what would happen next. Two women, meeting him, and seeing a smile on his lips, had said to each other, There is a happy man." If they had encountered him now, they might have reversed their opinion. They would have seen a man thinking of something once dear to him, in the far and uiiforgotten past. He crossed over the road to the side-street which faced the garden. His head dropped; he moved mechanically. Arrived in the street, he lifted his eyes, and stood (within nearer view of it) looking at the tree. Hundreds of miles away from London, under another tree of that gentle family, this man—so cold to women in after life—had made child-love, in the days of his boyhood, to a sweet little cousin long since numbered with the dead. The present time, with its interests and anxie- ties, passed away like the passing of a dream. Little by little, as the minutes followed each other, his sore heart felt a calming iinfluence, breathed mysteriously from those fluttering leaves. Still forgetful of the outward world, he wandered slowly up the street living in the old scenes; thinking, not unhappily now, the old thoughts. Where, in all London, could he have found a solitude more congenial to a dreamer in daylight ? The broad district, stretching northward and eastward from the British Museum, is like the (Quiet quarter of a country town set in the midst of the roaring activities of the largest city in the world. Here, you cross the road, without put- ting limb or life in peril. Here, when you are idle, you can saunter and look about, safe from collision with merciless straight-walkers whose time is money and whose destiny is business. Here, you may meet undisturbed cats on the pavement, in the full glare of noontide, and may watch through the railings: of the squares, children at play on grass that almost glows with the lustre of the Sussex Downs. This haven of rest is alike out of the way of fashion and business; and is yet within easy reach of the one and the other. Ovid paused in a vast and silent square. If his little cousin had lived, he might perhaps have seen his children at play in some such secluded spot as this. The birds were singing blithely in the trees. A tradesman's boy, delivering fish to the cook, and two girls watering flowers at a window, were the only living creatures near him, as he roused him- self and looked around. Where was the College ? Where were the Cu- rator and the Specimen ? Those questions brought with them no feeling of anxiety or surprise they crossed his mind like passing shadows. He turned, in a half-awakened way, without a wish or a purpose—turned and listlessly looked back. Two foot passengers, dressed in mourning gar- ments, were rapidly approaching him. One of them, as they came nearer, proved to be an aged woman. The other was a girl. He drew aside to let them pass. They looked at him with the lukewarm curiosity of strangers as they went by. The girl's eyes and his eyes met. Only the glance of an instant-and its influ- ence held him for life. She went swiftly on, as little impressed by the chance meeting as the old woman at her side. Without stopping to think—without being capable of thought—Ovid followed them. As a matter of absolute necessity, the magnet draws to it the steel. As a matter of absolute necessity, the girl drew to her the man. Never before had he done what he was doing now; he was, literally, out of himself. He saw them ahead of him; and he saw nothing else. Towards the middle of the square they turned aside into a street on the left. A concert-hall was in the street, with doors open for :an: afternoon performance. They entered the hall. Still out of himself, Ovid followed them. CHAPTER III. A room of magnificent size; furnished with every conventional luxury that money can buy lavishly provided with newspapers and books of reference; lighted by tall windows in the day- time, and by gorgeous chandeliers at night, may be, nevertheless, one of the dreariest places of rest and shelter that can be found on the civilised earth. Such places exist, by hundreds, in those hotels of monstrous proportions and pretensions which now engulf the traveller who ends his jour- ney on the pier or the platform. It may be that we feel ourselves to be strangers among strangers —it may be that there is something innately re- pellent in splendid carpets and curtains, chairs and tables, which have no social associations to recommend them—it may be that the mind loses its elasticity under the inevitable restraint on friendly communication, which expresses itself in lowered tone and instinctive distrust of our next neighbour—but this alone is certain life in the public drawing-room of a great hotel is life with all its liveliest emanations perishing miserably in an exhausted receiver. On the same day, and nearly at the same hour, when Ovid had leit his house, two women sat in a corner of a public room in one of the largest of the railway hotels latterly built in London. Without observing it themselves, they wereob- jects of curiosity to their fellow travellers. They spoke to each other in a foreign language. They were dressed in deep mourning—with an absence of fashion and a simplicity of material which at- tracted the notice of every other woman in the room. One of them wore a black veil over her grey hair. Her hands were brown, and knotty at the joints her eyes looked unnaturally bright for hef age. innumerable wrinkles crossed and re- crossed her skinny fac* and her aquiline nose (ae one of the ladies present took occasion to re- mark) was 110 disastrously like the nose of the great Duke of Wellington as to be an offensive feature in the face of a woman. The lady's companion, being a man, took a more merciful view. "She can't help being ugly," he whispered. But see how &h" looks at the girl with her. A good old creature, I say, if ever there Was one yet." The lady eye i him, as only a jealous woman can eye her husband, and whispered back, "Of course you're in love with thatalipofagirit" She was a slip of a girl—and not even a tall slip. At seventeen years of age, it was doubtful whether she would ever grow to a better height. But even a. girl who is too thin, and not quite so tall as the Venus de' Medici, may still be possessed of personal attractions. It was not altogether a matter of certainty in this case, that the attractions were sufficiently remark- able to excite general admiration. The fine colour and the plump healthy cheeks, the broad smiie, the regular teeth, the v. ell-developed mouth, and the promising bosom, which form altogether the average type of beauty found in the purely- bred English maiden, were not among the notice- able charms of the small creature in gloomy black shrinking into a corner of the big room. She had very little colour of any sort to boast of. Her hair was of so light a brown that it just escaped being flaxen but it had the negative merit of not being forced down to her eyebrows, and twisted into the hideous curly-wig which exhibits a liberal equality of ugliness on the heads of women in the present day. There was a delicacy of finish in her features—in the nose and the lips especially—a sensitive changefulnesa in the ex- pression of her eyes (too dark in themselves to be quite in harmony with her light hair); and a subtle yet simple witchery in her rare smile, which atoned, in some degree at least, for want of com- plexion in the face and of flesh in the figure. Men might dispute her claims to beauty-but no one could deny that slio wa;, in the common phrase, an iuterastiug person. Grace and refine- ment; a quickness of apprehension and a vivacity of movement, suggestive of some foreign origin a childish readiness of wonder, in the presence of new objects, and perhaps, under happier circum- stances, a childish playfulness with persons whom she loved, were all characteristic attractions of the modest stranger who was in charge of the ugly old woman, and was palpably the object of tha.t wrinkled duenna's devoted love. A travelling writing-case stood open on a table near them. In an interval of silence the girl looked at it reluctantly. They had been talking of family affaiw—and had spoken in Italian, so as to keelJ their domestic Plecrects from the eard of the strangers about them. The old woman was the first to resume the conversation. My Carmina, you rea/ty ought to write that letter," she said the illustrious Mrs Gallilee is waiting to hear of our arrival in London." Carolina took up the pen and put it down again with a sigh. "We only arrived last night," she pleaded. Dear old Teresa, let us have one day ill London by ourselves t" Teresa received this proposal with undisguised amazement and alarm. Jesu Maria! a day in London—and your aunt waiting for you an the time She is yonr seeond mother, my dear, by appointment and her house is your new home. And you propose to stop a whole day at an hotel, instead of going homo. Impossible Write, my Oarinina—write. See, here is the address on a card:—"Fairfield gardens." What a pretty place it must be to live in with such a name as that! And a sweet lady, no doubt. Come, come But Carmina still resisted. I have never even seen my aunt," she said. It is dreadful to pass my lite with a stranger. Remember, I was only a child when you came to lis after my mother's death. It is hardly six months yet since I lost my father. I hare no one bnt you, and when I go to this new home, you will leave me. I only ask for one more day to be together, before we part." The poor old duenna drew back, out of eight, in the shadow of a curtain—and began to cry. Carmina took her hand, under cover of a table- cloth Carmina knew how to Console her. u We will go and see sights," she wh" spared and, when dinner-time comes, you shall have a glass of tha Porto-porlo-wine." Teresa looked round oat of the shadow, as easily comforted as a child. Sights," she exclaimed— and dried her tears. Porto-porto-tfine !M she repeated—and smaoked her withered lips a.t the relishing words. c, Ah, my child, you have not forgotten the consolation* I told you of, when I lived in London in my young days. To think of you, with an English father, and never in London till now I used to go to museums and ooncerts sometimes, when my Eng- lish mistress was pleased with me. That gr.-vcious lady often gave me a glass of the flne strong purple wine. The Holy Virgin grant that Aunt Gal- lilee may be as kind a woman 1 Such a head of hair as the other one she vannot hope to have. It was a joy to dress it. Do you think I wouldn't stay here in England with yen if I could ? What is to beoome of my old man in Italy, with his cursed asthma, and nobody to nurse him t Oh, but those were dull days in London. The black endless streeta- the dreadfel Sundays — the hundreds of thousands of people, always ia a hurry, always with grim faces set on business, J business, business 1 1 was glad te get back and 1 be married in Italy. And here 1 am ) in London again, after God knows how many1 i years. No matter. We will enjoy ourselves to» • day j and when we sro tq Madame GallUpa'a to- I morrow, we will tell a little lie, and say we only I arrived on the evening that has not yet come." The duenna's sense of humour was so tickled by this prospective view of the little lie, that she leaned back in her chair and laughed. Carmina's rare smile showed itself faintly. The terrible first interview with the unknown aunt still op- pressed her. She took up a newspaper in despair. Oh, my old dear she said, let us get out of this dreadful room, and be reminded of Italy." Teresa lifted her ugly hands in bewilderment. Reminded of Italy—in London ?" "Is there no Italian music ill London?" Car- mina asked, suggestively. The duenna's bright eyes answered this in their own language. She snatched up the nearest news- paper. It was then the height of the London concert season. Morning performances of music were announced in rows. Reading the advertised pro- grammes, Carmina found them, in one remarkable respect, all alike. They would have led an ignorant stranger to wonder whether' any such persons as Italian composers, French composers, and English composers had ever existed. The music offered to the English public was music of exclusively Ger- man (and for the most part modern German) origin. Carmina held the opinion—in common with Mozart and Rossini, as well as other people —that music without melody is not music at all. She laid aside the newspaper. The plan of going to a concert being thus aban- doned, the idea occurred to them of seeing pictures. Teresa, in search of information, tried her luck at a great table in the middle of the room, on which useful books were liberally displayed. She returned with a catalogue of the Royal Academy Exhibition (which someone bad left on the table), and with the most universally well informed book, on a small scale, that has ever enlightened humanity— modestly described on the title-page as an Almanac. Carmina opened the catalogue at the first page, and discovered a list of Hoyal Academicians. Were all these gentlemen celebrated painters ? Out of forty names, three only had made them- selves generally known beyond the limits of Eng- land. She turned to the last page. The works of art on show numbered more than fifteen hundred. Teresa, looking over her shoulder, made the same discovery. Our heads will ache and our feet will ache," she remarked, before we get out of that place." Carmina laid aside the catalogue. Teresa opened the almanac at hazard, and hit on the page devoted to Amusements. Her next discovery led her to the section inscribed Mu- seums." She scored an approving mark at that place with her thumb-nail—and read the list in fluent broken English. The British Museum? Teresa's memory of that magnificent building recalled it vividly in one re- spect. She shook her head. "More headache and footache there Bethnal Green; Indian Museum; College of Surgeons; Practical Geo- logy South Kensington; Patent Museum—all unknown to Teresa. The saints preserve us what headaches and footaches in all these, if they are as big as that other one She went on with the list, and astonished everybody in the room by suddenly clapping her hands. Sir John Soane's Museum, Lincoln's-inn Fields. Ah, but I re- member that! A nice little easy museum in a private house, and all sorts of pretty things to see. My dear love, trust your old Teresa. Come to Soane In ten minutes more they were dressed, and on the steps 01 the hotel. The bright sunlight, the pleasant air, invited them to walk. On the same afternoon, when Ovid had set forth on foot for Lincoln's Inn-fields, Carmina and Teresa set forth on foot for Lincoln's Inn-fields. Trivial obstacles had kept the man away from the College. Would trivial obstacles keep the women away from the Museum ? They crossed the Strand, and entered a street which led out of it towards the North Teresa's pride in her memory forbidding her thus far to ask their way. Their talk—dwelling at first on Italy, and on the memory of Carmina's Italian mother—reverted to the formidable subject of Mrs Gallilee. Teresa's hopeful view of the future turned to the cousins, and drew the picture of two charming little girls, eagerly waiting to give their innocent hearts to their young relative from Italy. Are there only two?" she said. "Surely you, told me there was a boy, besides the girls ?" Carmina set her right. My cousin Ovid is a great doctor," she answered with an air of importance. Poor papa used to say that our family would have reason to be proud of him." "Does he live at home?" asked simple Teresa. "Oh, dear, no He has a grand house of his own. Hundreds of sick people go there to be cured, and give hundreds of golden guineas." Hundreds of golden guineas gained by only cur- ing sick people, represented to Teresa's mind something in the nature of a miracle: she solemnly raised her eyes to heaven. What a eousin to have! Is he young ? is he handsome? is he mar- ried 1" Instead of answering these questions, Carmina looked over her shoulder. "Is this poor creature following us ?" she asksd. They had now turned to the right, and had entered a busy street leading directly to Covent- garden. The creature," who was undoubtedly following them. was one of the starved and vaga- bond dogs of London. Every now and then the sympathiesof their rase lead these inveterate wan- derers to attach themselves, for the time, to some human companion, whom their mysterious in- sight chooses from the crowd. Teresa, with the hard feeling towards animals which is one of the serious defects of the Italian character, cried, Ah, the mangy beast I" and lifted her umbrella. The dog started back, waited a moment, and fol- lowed them again as they went on. Carmina's gentle heart gave its pity to this lost and huugry creature. "1 must buy that poor dog something to eat," she said, and stopped suddenly as the idea struck her. The dog, accustomed to kicks and curses, was ignorant of kindness. Following close behind her, when she checked herself, he darted a .iay in terror into the road. A cab was driven by rapidly at the moment. The wheels passed over the dog's neck. And there was an end, as a man remarked looking on, of the troubles of a cur. This common accident struck the girl's sensitive nature with horror. Helpless and .speechless, she trembled piteously. The nearest open door was the door of a music-seller's shop. Teresa led her in, and asked for a chair and a glass of wator. The proprietor, feeling the interest in Carmina which she seldom failed toinspire among strangers, went the length of offering her a glass of wine. Prefeiring water, she soon recovered herself sum- ciently to be able to leave the chair. "May I change my mind about going to the museum?" sshe said to her companion. "After what has happened, I hardly feel equal to looking at curiosities." Teresa's ready sympathy tried to find some acceptable alternative. "Music would be better, wouldn't it?" she suggested. The so-called Italian Opera was open that night; and the printed announcement of the per- formance was in the shop. They both looked at it. Fortune was still against them. A German opera appeared on the bill. Carmina turned to the music-seller in despair. "Is there no music, sir, but German music to be heard in London?" she a:;ked. The hospitable shopkeeper produced a concert programme for that afternoon-the modest enterprise of an obscure pianoforte teacher who could only venture to address pupils, patrons, and friends. What did h6 promise? Among other tilings, music from "Lucia," music from "Norma," music from "Ermmi." Teresa made another approving remark with her thumb-nail; and Carmina purchased tickets. The music-seller hurried to the door to stop the first empty cab that might pass. Carmina showed a deplorable ignorance of the law of chances. She shrank from the bare idea of getting into a cab. We may run over some other poor creature," she said. "If it isn't a dog, it may be a child next time." Teresa and the music-seller suggested a more reasonable view as gravely as they could. Carmina humbly submitted to the claims of com- mon sense—without yielding, for all that. I know I'm wrong, she confessed. Don't spoil my pleasure I can't do it t" The strange parallel was now complete. Bound for the same destination, Garmina and Ovid had failed to reach it alike. And Carmina had stopped to look at the garden of the British Museum, be- fore she overtook Ovid in the quiet square. CHAPTER IV. If, on entering the hall, Ovid had noticed the placards, he would have found himself confronted by a coincidence. The person who gave the con- cert was also the person who taught music to his half-sisters. Not many days since he had himself assisted the enterprise, by taking a ticket at his mother's request. Seeing nothing, remembering nothing—hurried by the lear of losing sight of the two strangers; if there was a large audlènce-he impatiently paid for another ticket at the doors. The room was little more than half-full, and so insulliciently ventilated that the atmosphere was oppressive even under those circumstances. He easily discovered the two central chairs, in the midway row of seats, which she and her com- panion had chosen. There was a vacant chair (among many others) at one extremity of the row in front of them. He took tttat place. To look at her, without being discovered—there, so far, was the beginning and the end of his utmost de- sire. The performance had already begun. So long as her attention was directed to the singers and players on the platfoim, he oould feast his eyes on her with impunity. In an unoccupied inter- val, she looked at the audience—and discovered him. Had he offended her? If appearances were te be trusted, he had pro- duced no iitipression of any sort. She quietly looked away, towards the other side of the room. The mere turning of her head was misinterpreted by Ovid as an implied rebuke. He moved to the row of seats behind her. She was now nearer te him than she had yet been. He was agaia con- tent, and more than content. <Jhe next performance was a sold on the piano. A round of applauap welcomed the played Ovid looked at the platform for the first time. In the bowing man, with a prematurely bald head and a servile smile, he recognised Mrs Gallilee'a musie- inaster. The inevitable infereace followed. His mother might be in the room. After careful examination of the scanty aedi- ence, he failed to discover her—thus far. She would certainly arrive, nevertheless. My i&oaey'it- worth for my money was a leading principle in Airs Gallilee'* lite. He sighed at he looked towards the door of en- trance. Not for long had be revelled in the luxury of A new happiness. He had openly avowed hIS dislike of concerts when his mother bad made him take a ticket for ihit concert. With her quickness of apprehension what might she net suspect, if she found him among the audieaeet •Come what might of it, fee still kept his place; he still feasted his eyes vm the elim figure of the young girl, on the gentle yet spirited carriage of her head. But the pleasure was ne longer plea- sure without alloy. His mother bad got b&tw&en t them now. The sole on tlte pianft eatn$to an end. In the interval that foUotred, he turn^J tmce more towaids the entrance. ns be was look- ing away again. Lie heard' Mrs ufallilee's loud toice. She ndtninistoring a maternal caution" to oris t)T the children. Behav6 better here than you behave4 & carriage, or Ij&aU take mswaxJi. I If she found him in his present place—if she put her own clever construction on what she saw—her opinion would assuredly express itself in some way. She was one of those women who can insult another woman (and safely disguise it) by an inquiring look. For the girl's sake Ovid instantly moved away from her to the seats at the back of the hall. Mrs Gallilee made a striking entrance—dressed to perfection powdered and painted to perfec- tion leading her daughters with grace followed by her governess with humility. The usher courteously indicated places near the platform. Mrs Gallilee astonished him by a little lecture on acoustics delivered with the sweetest condescen- sion. Her Christian humility smiled, and called the usher, Sir, Sound, sir, is most perfectly heard towards the centre of the auditorium." She led the way towards the centre. Vacant places invited her to the row of seats occupied by Carmina and Teresa. She, the unknown aunt, seated herself next to the unknown niece. They looked at each other. Perhaps, it was the heat of the room- Perhaps, she had not perfectly recovered the nervous shock of seeing the dog killed. Carmina's head sank on Teresa's shoulder. She had fainted. (To be continued.)

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