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denly became doubly dear with the irresistible charm of the unattainable. It was hard to turn his steps eastward again, when almost within sight of home; but he went on writing his letters, and burning his ships, without even a momentary halt for regret. He did not refrain, however, from audible laments and maledictions on the hard fate which came in the disguise of good fortune. Blessings are said to come in disguise ofttimes , and why not the other visitants? He regretted especially leaving his pleasant voyage unfinished, and parting with two, at least, of his fellow-travellers. What would Lady May say to this turn of events? and that odd little Australian girl, who interested him somehow against his better judgment. He felt really anxious about her future; she was so inexperienced , so unfriended, and he had all the musician’s kindness for a comrade in arms.

“I wish I could do something for her,” he murmured; “she will never get on by herself in London. I wonder if my mother would look after her?” But at this point he paused, and deliberated; for the idea of any society lady “taking up” a girl who habitually wore cotton gloves and made her coiffure with two hairpins and a wisp of black ribbon—even if she could