her heart to pray she may never live to spend again. To pray this prayer actually on her knees-whether in church, the great quiet church with its silent aisles, its softly burning lamps like little beacons lit to guide the wanderer to a shore of peace, or at home, before that thorn-crowned Christ who now looks down unseeingly on so many tears, such sad and poignant supplications: to pray this prayer, I say, would seem to Clem Primrose-frivolous, uneducated superficial little ballet-girl as she is, opposed to that Spirit of the Cross which is supposed to shape the lives of Christians. So she bears mutely enough-yet not without many a pang. During this week of slow torture, Mr. Abrams takes into his head to call. He drives up in a hansom. Clem, startled by the sound of wheels, goes to the window and looks out. The sight of that rotund, spic and span figure does not awake in her feelings of unmixed gratification. Having administered so portentous a drubbing to the poor old knocker that all the house is set agog, and heads pop out of various windows, "affable Dolf," as this illustrious purveyor of choregraphic novelties is styled within certain limits, is promptly ushered into Mrs. Such's front sitting-room-a dark and malodorous apartment devoted to conchology and tumblers-by that lady herself in a state of beaming grimeit being about the third hour of the day-and cindery avocations in full blast,- while Eliza, otherwise Miss Such, tears upstairs to fall prone in a tattered heap on the topmost step of the last flight, and inform Miss Primrose between gasps and "O dears," of the honour that has befallen her. Clem receives the intimation with surprising calm; subsequently proceeding downstairs quite at her leisure, indeed, rather slower than usual.

"Hulloa, my dear," exclaims Mr. Abrams, smiling expansively as she makes her appearance-and springing to his feet, having temporarily deposited his round-about person on that exceeding original and even eccentric piece of furniture -Mrs. Such's black horsehair sofa-whose geography is intricate-" so there you are. Bless me, if I didn't think I should never see your dear little face again. Give us a kiss, Clem, for old acquaintance sake. I've been so awfully busy" -the round black eyes a-glitter.

"Mr. Abrams," says Clem, loftily, "you forget yourself." That gentleman laughs.

"Suppose, I do," retorts he, "what does that signify while I remember you. By Jove, arn't you pretty! Prettier than ever, I think. But you're looking awfully pale, my dear, and worn out; fretting, I suppose, over the old place and me. "And you," echoes Clem, contemptuously, "you are

vastly mistaken, if you think I ever bestowed a thought on you. Why do you come here to insult me in this way?" "Now, don't be a stupid," says the man, not altogether unkindly, in a staider tone. "Recollect I'm boss. I've got it all my own way; and you shall have it yours-if onlyyou'll listen to reason. Look here," thrusting his hand. into his pocket, "I've not come unprepared," bringing out a thick pocketbook. 'What do you want-twenty, fifty, say the word, it's yours."

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"I want you to leave this room," exclaims Clem, now thoroughly indignant, fire flashing through her tears, "this house and you shall too;" turning to look for the bell, which is nonexistent. Bells did not enter into the cosmogony of the wise and noble genius who planned these habitations.

"People have tongues, let them use them," argued he. "Make a shindy," smiles Mr. Abrams, evilly, "you'll find it to your advantage. Clem, you'd best think it over. I make you a good offer; and I'm in earnest."

"So am I," returns Clem, her face flushed and wroth. "I know you," pursues this shrewd man of the day, "you're as good as gold. I only did it to try you. Be my wife, Miss Primrose, and let bygones be bygones. I've liked you all along, only I've not had the time to tell you so. You see I've been so busy."

"Your wife," echoes Clem, her eyes full stretch, unable either to credit her ears or take in the man's stupendous impudence, "why, you're married already."

Mr. Abrams has not much the air of one who labours under a radically false accusation. He arches his eyebrows, -slaps his hand with his glove.

"O, well," says he, "the other party went to Australia. I've not heard anything of her for a long while. I reckon she's safe. Besides, I'll square her if she does turn up. She'd sell her soul for brass."

Clem's bosom swells-she seems to battle for words.

"Will you go?" says she, at length, pointing to the door. "If I were a man and strong enough, I would make you; as it is, being a woman, I am at your mercy. But I can tell you this, Mr. Abrams, your character is perfectly well-known to me, and has been from the first."

"All right," rejoins he, doggedly, "you try to get an engagement, that's all; you'll find it easy, I guess. Saying which, and repocketing his belongings, he buttons up his coat, takes his hat, and with a low and derisive bow and smile, departs.

Clem waits till he is quite gone-till she has heard the door slam, the cab drive off; then she sinks into the nearest

chair, covers her face with her hands, and begins to crycry bitterly, for she knows that she has now secured to herself, in addition to all the other evils that threaten to overpower her, one of the most pitiless, stony-hearted foes in all London. Dolf Abrams has risen to be what he is no very great elevation, it is true, still noteworthy, seeing that he

commenced life as a potboy-by setting his face sternly against what he calls sentiment, and other men absurdly term honour. But Dolf will have none of it, call it what you will. He goes straight to the point, good or bad; and hitherto the plan has succeeded remarkably well. At any rate, it has brought him in money, renown, and a very sub

stantial slice of that material prosperity on which his heart is set.

Clem knows the man she has to deal with. She has heard plenty about Mr. Abrams and his way of treating people at the theatre: how he turned off this helpless creature, and exacted the uttermost farthing from that impecunious and starving debtor. Yes; Clem is by no means blind to consequences. Yet the girl's spirit never wavers-never for an instant.

"His wife," utters she, indignantly, as she recalls the man's odious words, his odious looks; "I would rather be dead, yes, a thousand times; and dead we both shall be very soon if something doesn't come to save us. What am I to do?

O, saints and angels, what am I to do?"

"Ain't the genelman been kind to you, my dear?" here interposes the insinuating voice of Mrs. Such, who, being able to spare five minutes from her varied toils, thinks fit to bestow them-generous soul-on "pore Miss Primrose."

Clem.

Clem looks round-hastily dries her eyes.

"I thought 'e seemed such a nice genelman," pursues the voice, exasperatingly.

Clem is conscious of a crazy desire to do something violent. "So free-'anded. 'E chucked my Jem tuppence for pickin' up 'is stick as 'e dropped in the mud. I was in 'opes 'e come to bring you some good news, for sure we want it," I want some money, with a gusty sigh; "don't we?

drefful."

Clem makes no answer: she rises and leaves the room without a word. Impolitic, perhaps ; but how can she bring herself, wounded, lacerated as she is, to play the hypocrite, and feign an interest in flat twaddle? It is impossible.

Error number two. Trouble and hunger combined,Clem has barely broken her fast to-day; there was not much of yesterday's loaf left for breakfast, and that Mulie had, Mulie must not be made unhappy by being let to picture the slow horrors of starvation stealthily creeping nearer, nearer, Mulie must continue to fancy that she lives, if not exactly in a land of plenty, still within reach of the ordinary necessaries of life; trouble and hunger, I repeat, are apt somewhat to confuse the intellect and obscure the judgment of the clearestheaded of us-a rôle to which Clem does not aspire. She is only a girl endued with a girl's passionate sense of indignity and injustice. Mrs. Such's very look is an insult. Clem feels sadly at a disadvantage. She seems to have placed herself at the mercy of everyone. Everyone has a right to insult her now, to demand that she shall fling herself into the mire, in order to satisfy their greed. A man comes and asks her soul for his pleasure; a woman asks the same for sheer gain. What is she to do? Hunted, goaded, suffocating beneath the weight of existence that seems as if it would crush her, Clem sinks on her knees by her bed, flings out her weary arms, and weeps her fill. O for Ted! where is Ted? Why cannot he come to protect her, to stand between her and this wicked world, that is so cruel to the weak and cringes slavishly to the strong? "I wish I had it at my feet," thinks poor Clem, waxing fierce in her despair; "I would spurn it." "You might have it," whispers the Tempter. Rise up from your knees, take pen, ink, ani paper; write to Dolf Abrams; tell him that you mistook your feelings that you spoke harshly-that you wish he would forget. He will come; he will believe you. Money will be yours, comfort, fame perhaps, if you care for it. You will have a splendid stage-chance as his wife, as his friend, even. All the world lies before you this hard world you justly hate. Be wise." Be wise." But Clem never listens. She is as deaf

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