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gently, they were not swans, but ships.

      She was a little disappointed at that, but inquired what they were doing.

      "Darling," said he, "they are going to some other land, where honest, hard-working people can not starve, and, mark my words, darling," said he—she pricked her little ears at that—"you and I shall have to go with them, for we are poor."

      "Oh," said little Grace, impressed by his manner as well as his words, and nodded her pretty head with apparent wisdom, and seemed greatly impressed.

      Then her father fed her with bread and milk, and afterward laid her on the bed, and asked her whether she loved him.

      "Dearly, dearly," said she.

      "Then if you do," said he, "you will go to sleep like a good girl, and not stir off that bed till I come back."

      "No more I will," said she.

      However, he waited until she was in an excellent condition for keeping her promise, being fast as a church.

      Then he looked long at her beautiful face, wax-like and even-tinted, but full of life after her meal, and prayed to Him who loved little children, and went with a beating heart to Mr. Bartley's office.

      But in the short time, little more than an hour and a half, which elapsed between Hope's first and second visit, some most unexpected and remarkable events took place.

      Bartley came in from his child's dying bed distracted with grief; but business to him was the air he breathed, and he went to work as usual, only in a hurried and bitter way unusual to him. He sent out his clerk Bolton with some bills, and told him sharply not to return without the money; and whilst Bolton, so-called, was making his toilette in the lobby, his eye fell on his other clerk, Monckton.

      Monckton was poring over the ledger with his head down, the very picture of a faithful servant absorbed in his master's work.

      But appearances are deceitful. He had a small book of his own nestled between the ledger and his stomach. It was filled with hieroglyphics, and was his own betting book. As for his brown-study, that was caused by his owing £100 in the ring, and not knowing how to get it. To be sure, he could rob Mr. Bartley. He had done it again and again by false accounts, and even by abstraction of coin, for he had false keys to his employer's safe, cash-box, drawers, and desk. But in his opinion he had played this game often enough, and was afraid to venture it again so soon and on so large a scale.

      He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he did not hear Mr. Bartley come to him; to be sure, he came softly, because of the other clerk, who was washing his hands and brushing his hair in the lobby.

      So Bartley's hand, fell gently, but all in a moment, on Monckton's shoulder, and they say the shoulder is a sensitive part in conscious rogues. Anyway, Monckton started violently, and turned from pale to white, and instinctively clapped both hands over his betting book.

      "Monckton," said his employer, gravely, "I have made a very ugly discovery."

      Monckton began to shiver.

      "Periodical errors in the balances, and the errors always against me."

      Monckton began to perspire. Not knowing what to say, he faltered, and at last stammered out, "Are you sure, sir?"

      "Quite sure. I have long seen reason to suspect it, so last night I went through all the books, and now I am sure. Whoever the villain is, I will send him to prison if I can only catch him."

      Monckton winced and turned his head away, debating in his mind whether he should affect indignation and sympathy, and pretend to court inquiry, or should wait till lunch-time, and then empty the cash-box and bolt.

      Whilst thus debating, these words fell unexpectedly on his ear:

      "And you must help me."

      Then Monckton's eyes turned this way and that in a manner that is common among thieves, and a sardonic smile curled his pale thin lip.

      "It is my duty," said the sly rogue, demurely. Then, after a pause,

       "But how?"

      Then Mr. Bartley glanced at Bolton in the lobby, and not satisfied with speaking under his breath, drew this ill-chosen confidant to the other end of the office.

      "Why, suspect everybody, and watch them. Now there's this clerk Bolton: I know nothing about him; I was taken by his looks. Have your eye on him."

      "I will, sir," said Monckton, eagerly. He drew a long breath of relief. For all that, he was glad when a voice in the little office announced a visitor.

      It was a clear, peremptory voice, short, sharp, incisive, and decisive. The clerk called Bolton heard it in the lobby, and scuttled into the street with a rapidity that contrasted drolly enough with the composure and slowness with which he had been brushing his hair and titivating his nascent whiskers.

      A tall, stiff military figure literally marched into the middle of the office, and there stood like a sentinel.

      Mr. Bartley could hardly believe his senses.

      "Colonel Clifford!" said he, roughly.

      "You are surprised to see me here?"

      "Of course I am. May I ask what brings you?"

      "That which composes all quarrels and squares all accounts—Death."

      Colonel Clifford said this solemnly, and with less asperity. He added, with a glance at Monckton, "This is a very private matter."

      Bartley took the hint, and asked Monckton to retire into the inner office.

      As soon as he and Colonel Clifford were alone, that warrior, still standing straight as a dart, delivered himself of certain short sentences, each of which seemed to be propelled, or indeed jerked out of him, by some foreign power seated in his breast.

      "My sister, your injured wife, is no more."

      "Dead! This is very sudden. I am very, very sorry. I—"

      Colonel Clifford looked the word "Humbug," and continued to expel short sentences.

      "On her death-bed she made me promise to give you my hand. There it is."

      His hand was propelled out, caught flying by Bartley, released, and drawn back again, all by machinery it seemed.

      "She leaves you £20,000 in trust for the benefit of her child and yours—Mary Bartley."

      "Poor, dear Eliza."

      The Colonel looked as less high-bred people do when they say "Gammon," but proceeded civilly though brusquely.

      "In dealing with the funds you have a large discretion. Should the girl die before you, or unmarried, the money lapses to your nephew, my son, Walter Clifford. He is a scapegrace, and has run away from me; but I must protect his just interests. So as a mere matter of form I will ask you whether Mary Bartley is alive."

      Bartley bowed his head.

      Colonel Clifford had not heard she was ill, so he continued: "In that case"—and then, interrupting himself for a moment, turned away to Bartley's private table, and there emptied his pockets of certain documents, one of which he wanted to select.

      His back was not turned more than half a minute, yet a most expressive pantomime took place in that short interval.

      The nurse opened a door of communication, and stood with a rush at the threshold: indeed, she would have rushed in but for the stranger. She was very pale, and threw up her hands to Bartley. Her face and her gesture were more expressive than words.

      Then Bartley, clinging by mere desperate instinct to money he could not hope to keep, flew to her, drove her out by a frenzied movement of both hands, though he did not touch her, and spread-eagled himself before the door, with his face and dilating eyes turned toward Colonel Clifford.

      The Colonel turned and stepped toward him with the document he had selected

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