at the loss of a situation, the duties of which had long been irksome and without interest; this uncertainty of his prospects would certainly defer his marriage. Laura would not care to come and live in chambers, he felt assured; out of an uncertain evil a certain good would be produced; the wedding must be delayed for some months at least, till he began to make something handsome by his pen, and who could tell what might happen in the interval? Rather inspirited than depressed, Cyril left Westminster, and that very evening, shutting himself up in his chambers, he sketched out a number of plans to be worked up at leisure. First and foremost came the longdeferred history of his own beloved cathedral; but then it struck him that that would be a labour of time, and meanwhile it was necessary to make money, so he would at once commence a novelette for one of the leading magazines, as well as an historical romance to be completed in three volumes. Added to these, it struck him that he could also produce brilliant articles on the leading questions and events of the day, and such sketches, not too elaborate, but graphically and powerfully written, would be acceptable to the editors of the best papers. In short, Cyril Denham, as he sat alone, swallowing cup after cup of strong tea, saw himself the most popular author of the day, his time fully occupied, his purse well replenished, his balance at his banker's something most respectable; himself, in propria persona, the idol of society, and the ardently-desired of publishers, editors, and men of genius. Yes! now he would "build himself an everlasting name." The lady of Monkswood should hear his name-yes, his name-sounded triumphantly through the length and breadth of the land, and she and her detestable husband should be compelled to own that it was a name of power-a name that women loved and men revered.

Fired to enthusiasm, he seized on pen and paper, and commenced the first chapter of the novel or novelette that was to glorify the pages of Blackwood's

Magazine, and he wrote far into the night, and retired at last to dream of the wide-world plaudits, of wellearned laurels, of standing in prose literature where Tennyson stands in the lists of poesy.

And in the morning, though he had the headache, the result of excitement and excess in green tea, he rose with fervour unabated, and wrote on through the day, scarcely pausing for his meals, so that when at last, from sheer exhaustion, he laid down his pen a little before midnight, the tale was nearly finished.

Next day he worked more slowly, and with less ardour, and he could not account for it, but his interest in the charming toil was wofully diminished, and it was only by a strong effort that he kept himself to his task, but his attention wandered, and he began to feel physically fatigued, and at last assuring himself that successful composition could never be forced, he laid down his pen, drank a bottle of sparkling Moselle, and went out for the evening.

A week passed away before the story was completed, but at last the final word was written, and it remained only to take or send the MS. to its destination. Cyril decided to leave it himself, and he wandered that very afternoon into Paternoster Row, and consigned it to an iron-looking man, who promised that it should be "considered in due course."

Cyril hoped it would be very quickly "considered," and of course accepted, since he began to have certain qualms respecting the state of his finances; he had not paid all his Christmas bills; he wanted certain books for reference, and a very few pounds remained to him of ready money. He decided that he must be more economical, drink weaker tea, which would be better for his nerves, and eschew sparkling Moselle altogether, or keep it as a special indulgence for high days and holidays. Meanwhile he had better go home, and work steadily at his cathedral papers; he had decided on offering his chef d'œuvre to Longmans, as a firm worthy to bring out volumes of so vast importance. But one morning came the startling

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announcement that the bill to which he had put his name was not provided for; that unforeseen circumstances had arisen; that a complication of disasters had ensued-in short, that Cyril must meet the bill, and stump up the tin,"-such was Mr. Somerset's elegant but forcible expression, or else the little bill must be renewed. And as Cyril had not £300 at his disposal, scarcely indeed the difference between that sum and three hundred guineas, it was very evident that the process of "renewing," costly as it might prove, must be resorted to. In towering wrath and indignation Cyril set off for Pimlico, determined from his grand vantage-ground as creditor to carry matters with a high hand, and finally and forcibly dissever himself from the Somersets: "Why he had better marry the daughter of the 'Old Man of the Sea,' if she could be found, than Laura Somerset."

Arrived at the well-known domicile, he found the "family" in a state that baffles description. Mrs. Matthews was crying and storming, and pouring out full vials of wrath on the head of the unfortunate partner of her joys and sorrows, for "it was all his fault," she averred; "if he had been a man, and not a gander, it never would have happened, but he was of no use in the world except to make work in the house, and spend the money she toiled so hard to earn." Angey had been snubbed into hysterics; the servants had all given warning. Miss Crumple, in high disdain, smilingly remarked, "It was what she had long expected." Adeline Grundison felt happier than she had been for many a day; for now she was in some sort revenged on Laura for her criticisms on "Ever of thee" and the Norma duets. The Battelbringers for once were unanimous, and declared that the family was well rid of such impostors, while young Gregory, who had lately favoured Yankeeisms, vowed that it was "screaming fun." All of which portended the flight of the Somersets.

Cyril could obtain no clear statement of facts from anybody, till he found Gregory with his heels planted

on the drawing-room mantelpiece, trolling out one of his nigger songs in very bad time.

"Just tell me the plain facts," cried Cyril, excitedly ; everybody seem gone out of their senses. What is it all about?"

"It is very simple, mon ami. Your beautiful bride and her papa have skedaddled; that is, have absquatulated; that is, have mizzled; that is, have 'cut their lucky;' that is, have clandestinely removed themselves and their belongings from this palatial residence, without consulting the maire du palais, or la mère de la maison. In short, they have surreptitiously absconded with all their effects, leaving us only their blessing and any amount of unsettled bills."

And Cyril, thinking of Laura, rejoiced greatly; but thinking of the £300 which he could not pay, and might not ignore, was greatly troubled in spirit.

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CHAPTER XXXI.

THE WOLF AT THE DOOR.

AFTER innumerable pains and anxieties, Cyril succeeded in getting his “little bill" renewed, and thus the evil day was postponed, but the evil itself augmented, since he would have to pay heavily for the accommodation. But he really had no alternative, and he fondly hoped that before the second bill became due, he should be in funds from his literary ventures, and quite able to discharge his debts; and then, he promised himself, never under any circumstances, or for the sake of anybody, to put his hand to a little bill again. Meantime, he worked on at his "Chronicles of Southchester Cathedral," and "dashed off" several sparkling articles,—the very champagne of newspaper literature, and sent them to one of the editors of the Times, who did condescend to use one of them, and of course paid for it; but the rest were "declined with thanks." Cyril, though elated with this morsel of success, was rather chagrined at the editorial rejection. of his best articles, for he had told himself that they would be caught up with avidity, and he himself retained on the Times and other leading journals forthwith. He was beginning to be anxious, too, respecting the fate of the MS. he had left in Paternoster Row.

It was towards the close of a wretched February day, that, sitting moodily by his ashy fire, his untasted tea by his side, and his note-book in hand, he heard footsteps slowly ascending the stairs which led to his chambers. They were slip-shod, lagging feet, and they came wearily, as if tired of their day's