than our father. I told him he should remember the respect he owed him; and even if he were in the wrong, it was his duty to submit, rather than rebel, as he was perfectly well aware how amiable and kind-hearted a man my father really was.

"I don't dispute his good heart, Clara, to everybody else, but why should he single out me? Since your marriage nothing I do seems to please him." "But what is it, Edmond, you have had lately to complain of ?" I inquired.

"Nothing much more than usual; I even admit that the annoyances, if taken singly, would hardly form an excuse for my conduct, but you know the proverb, that it is the last feather that breaks the camel's back, and every day I expect that last feather will be placed on mine. Besides, Clara, I hate the business and everything connected with it; and my father's old-fashioned ideas of obedience and respect by no means correspond with mine. No, I can support it no longer; I am determined to leave the house, and that very soon-whether this week or the next, or the week after, I know not. If I remain longer than a week you will see me again, if not, I shall now say good-bye.”

"But, Edmond dear, you must be mad," I said. "Why, what are you fit for; what can you do? You have neither money nor friends to help you that I know of. You have even offended my husband, so that you cannot apply to him."

Edmond," I said, "do not speak in that manner of my husband. Calm yourself, like a dear good fellow as you really are."

I then endeavoured to show him the folly of his quitting my father's house, and the absurd prejudice he had taken against the business; and I was upon the point of holding up my husband as an example that a man naturally fond of a soldier's life could adapt himself to business habits if he pleased, but I feared it might only produce some expression uncomplimentary to him; I therefore withheld my remark, and we talked sadly together for perhaps an hour longer, when Edmond rose to leave.

"Clara dear," he said, "I wanted to speak to you on a subject ever since I have been in the room, but I had not the courage. I wish to give you a keepsake before I go away, but as my means are of the smallest, my keepsake must be a very poor one." So saying he placed in my hands a silver-gilt watch, which I mentioned in the second chapter of my book as being among the relics I had retained. "Accept it for my sake, Clara," he continued, "and keep it when I am gone. What I shall do I know not."

Of course I accepted the present he offered me, but at the same time begged him to reconsider his resolution. This he refused to do, and after saying good-bye to me, and kissing my baby, who was now

growing up a very interesting child, he hurriedly left the house.

For some time after my brother had gone, beyond feeling sorrow at the distress of mind the poor fellow was in, my interview with him had but little effect on me. As I thought over the subject, however, it began to appear in a more serious light, should he attempt to put his threat into execution. What a vast amount of misery it would bring on himself, but far more on my dear father and mother, both of whom I knew to be really attached to him, notwithstanding the unhappy differences which existed between father and son. This feeling of uneasiness increased, till it became one of intense anxiety, and by way of relieving myself from the sensation I resolved to go to Spital Square, and tell my parents of the object of Edmond's visit to me. No sooner had I resolved than I sent for a cab, and with my nurse and baby an hour afterwards was in the drawing-room of my father's house. I wished if possible to have the opportunity of first seeing my mother alone, but in this I was disappointed, as my father came into the room with her.

As soon as our meeting was over, I could perceive on the countenance of my mother an expression of deep sorrow; on that of my father, anger as well as sorrow. For some time we conversed on ordinary matters, my own health and welfare, and that of my baby being the principal frais de conversation. In fact, the presence of my child on the occasion was rather a politic idea of mine, and had I not been instigated by it I should not have brought her with me, as she had not been very well lately, and per haps would have been better at home. My father I knew was intensely attached to his little granddaughter, and I hoped it would serve to attract his mind from more painful subjects. Nor in this was I mistaken; and so taken up was he with the child for some minutes that I managed to draw my mother from the room, that I might have a little private conversation with her.

As soon as we had entered her bedroom and closed the door I told her of Edmond's visit, and what had passed at it. My mother, although she appeared sorrowful, exhibited no surprise.

"I am sure, my dear," she said, "I know not what to do in the matter. The continued unhappy feeling existing between your father and Edmond does not in any manner abate, in spite of all I can do to reconcile them."

"Do you think, mamma," I said, "if I could speak to papa on the subject it would be of any use? You know what a terrible blow it would be to him if Edmond attempted to put his threat into execution."

"It would be terrible indeed, my dear, to both of us, but fortunately I think there is little danger of such a thing. He has uttered that threat at least a score of times to my knowledge since your wedding."

"But in what way could my wedding bear upon the matter?" I asked.

"I am so used to the threat now, my dear," said my mother (as usual avoiding my question), "that it does not give me the alarm it did at first. Your offer, Clara, of speaking to your father is a very kind one, and perhaps on another occasion it might have a good effect, for I know that you have great power over both him and Edmond; but the present is hardly the time for it, as he is now exceedingly annoyed with Edmond for his neglect of business, and I must say with a good deal of reason."

"Well, my dear, Derigny, who for some time past has behaved exceedingly well, managed to get tipsy the other night-though-to do him justice, I must say it is the first time he has done so since he has been in your father's service. But, however, he has paid severely for his fault, for in going home he was knocked down by a cart, and so severely injured that he will not be able to leave his bed for some weeks, which is exceedingly unfortunate, as your father is very busy just now, and Derigny, who thoroughly understands the business, was of great use to him. It unfortunately happens that his eldest son, a young man about twenty, who was waiter at some inn in the country, had come up to London to seek another situation, and Derigny requested your father to allow him to fill his place in the warehouse till his recovery. As he appeared a smart, intelligent young fellow, your father consented; but notwithstanding all his good qualities and pleasing manners, he is totally ignorant of the business, and hardly knows a silk from a satin, and certainly not an organzine from a tram. Nor is he acquainted with any of the customers, or their places of residence, and, in fact, has to be taught everything; thus throwing a vast amount of extra work on others in the warehouse. Well, you would naturally imagine that Edmond, seeing the difficulty your father was in, would have exerted himself to be useful; but instead of doing so he has hardly been in the warehouse five minutes all the day. It is really most unconscionable on his part. That he feels great pleasure in visiting you I can easily imagine, but he might have put it off till another day. He had nothing whatever that required his attention in your part of London, and even if he had returned immediately after your interview with him was over he would have lost several hours, but he has not yet returned."

"But, mamma," I said, "if Edmond, in the meantime, were to put his threat into execution"Do not alarm yourself, my dear. better than that," said my mother. nothing of the kind.”

I know him "He will do

After a little further conversation on family matters, in which, as usual, my mother avoided all allusion to my husband, she proposed joining my father in the drawing-room. We found him still engaged with the child, whom he now held in his arms, and was amusing by swinging the tassel of the windowblind backwards and forwards, wearing, at the same time, an expression of happiness on his countenance, which I believe it had been a stranger to since the last time I paid him a visit with Adeline. Our presence did not in any manner impede him in his amusement. Both my mother and myself watched him for some moments without speaking, and both possibly thinking whether the interesting little creature he held in his arms might not in the end bring back to our family circle that mutual good feeling and affection which had for so many years been one of its distinguishing attributes.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MY FIRST GREAT TROUBLE.

NEVER was a human being more completely in error than my poor mother when she told me there was no probability of my brother Edmond putting into execution his threat of leaving the house.

Two days after my visit to Spital Square a cab with my mother in it drove up to our house. As soon as I perceived her from the window I hastened to the street door to receive her. She pushed by me, however, and entered the parlour, and then, beckoning me to close the door, threw herself into a chair. On lifting a thick veil she wore, I was struck dumb with surprise at the appearance she presented. Her eyes were red with crying, and her features swollen. I was so much astonished that I was unable even to ask her for an explanation; nor did she appear able to give one. She attempted to speak, but no word escaped her lips, and for some moments she sat with her hands tightly clasped together and pressed upon her breast, looking at me the while the very picture of despair. At length I regained sufficient self-possession to address her.

"Dear mamma, whatever has occurred to distress you so much?" I said.

"It is quite true what you said. My dear boy has

"Not in the least, my dear. I merely mentioned the circumstance as a reason for your not speaking to your father to-day about Edmond. Come again, say in a week's time, and then talk on the matter with him if you like, and I will arrange things so as to make your interview as pleasant as possible."

mind we know not what to do. He, poor man, is nearly beside himself with shame and sorrow." "But pray collect yourself, and let me hear what has happened."

"Well, my dear," said my mother, making a violent effort to speak consecutively, in which she barely succeeded, "yesterday morning your father remon

strated with Edmond on the length of time he was absent from the house the day he visited you, and he told him how inconsiderate it was of him, when he knew they were so overwhelmed with business at the time. He replied sharply and rudely to his father, who, being already irritated by other matters, answered him in still stronger terms. I am sorry to say an altercation then ensued between them in the warehouse, in the presence of others, which you know has always a bad effect, and it ended by Edmond leaving the warehouse for about an hour. When he returned, both your father's and his temper had considerably cooled down, and for some short time they attended to their separate duties without any conversation passing between them. Presently your father told Edmond he wished him to take a letter to a silk mercer's house at the West-end. Take great care of it, Edmond,' he said, 'for there are several banknotes in it.' Edmond made no answer, but took the letter from his hand, and a few minutes afterwards left the house. At dinner-time he had not returned, and I asked your father if he could account for his absence. He said he could not, as he might easily have been back half an hour before, but that he supposed, as usual, he was idling his time away. Well, Clara, we had dinner without him; then tea; and at last supper was placed on the table, but Edmond had not returned. When your father sat down to supper I noticed an anxious, almost terrified, expression on his countenance, which for the moment hid from me the fact of Edmond's long absence. At length I asked him if he had sent Edmond out again on any commission.

"Your father for a moment was silent, and then, flinging his knife and fork on the table, he said, with one concentrated look of terror on his face, For mercy's sake don't ask me any questions!' I obeyed him, and when our meal-if meal it could be called, for we neither of us partook of food- —was over, your father, contrary to his habit, went back to the warehouse. About ten o'clock he again entered the room, and told me, in that stern tone of voice which he is accustomed to use when he will brook no refusal, to go to bed, and that he would sit up for Edmond. I was about asking him if he could divine the cause of your brother's absence, but a glance at his face taught me that he could not, and that I had better be silent. I went up to my room and there seated myself in an casy chair, for all thoughts of seeking my bed had left me, so terribly was I agitated at Edmond's prolonged absence. Hour after hour passed, and still no sound of the street door being opened; nor did your father come up-stairs. Morning dawned, and my patience could hold out no longer. I crept softly down to the parlour, and opening the door, saw your father on his knees, his hands covering his face, and evidently in deep prayer.

tears, "you cannot imagine what my feelings were at the time, to see your dear father in such terrible anxiety. For some moments I hesitated whether to advance or retire, but my love for him prevailed, and, placing my arm round his neck, I begged of him to be calm. He no sooner became aware of my presence than he started to his feet and looked angrily at me. In a moment that look had vanished, and, putting his arm round me, he bent his head on my shoulder and sobbed like a child.”

My mother here was obliged to pause for some minutes, she was so overcome; but in a little while continued her narrative.

"Well, my dear, how shall I tell you the rest? This morning your father went to the silk mercer's to whom he had sent the letter by Edmond, but they had seen nothing of him. He then drove round to several other places where he thought it likely Edmond might have called, but no one had seen or heard anything of him, and your father then returned home, where he now remains, utterly brokenhearted."

Hoping against hope, I said to my mother, "Do not alarm yourself, my dear mamma. It may not be as bad as you imagine. When Edmond's fit of temper is over, no doubt he will soon return home."

"Not he, my dear,” said my mother, shaking her head sadly, "not he; we shall never see Edmond again. You have not heard the worst." 'What can you mean ?" I asked.

"I mean, my dear, that worse remains to be told, so much worse that I believe your poor father would rather have seen your brother dead before him than it should have occurred. It seems that he kept the numbers of the notes entrusted to Edmond, and on making inquiries at the bank this morning he found that one for fifty pounds had been changed for gold. The name and address signed on it are evidently false, and the person who presented it was described in such a manner as to leave no doubt it was your brother Edmond."

When my poor mother had told me that Edmond had quitted the house, I thought it would have been the most terrible blow, she and my father had suffered, but, much as I pitied them before, my pity was now boundless. Great as my sorrow had been at Edmond's desertion, it was now far greater when I heard he had been guilty of so contemptible an action.

"