impose upon me so disagreeable a necessity. I want to rule you with kindness, also I want you to rule yourselves. You are none of you babies,-some of you are almost men,-you are all, I suppose, true-born English lads, therefore I trust you! I shall believe that every lad speaks the truth till I find that he tells a lie; then shall believe him no more, I shall never take his word again, till he redeem his character. I wish to be your friend, as well as your master. I wish to help you in all your needs, and I want you to trust me, and to tell me your troubles and difficulties. I shall expect from you all prompt obedience; at the same time I will try never to harass your tempers, or to give unnecessary commands that you would rather not obey. At the end of a week I shall know you better, and I shall know in whom-from superior age, steadiness, and principle combined-I may confide as real 'helpers' in the great work I have undertaken. Those of you who approve of my speech, those who are anxious that thrashing should no longer be part of the system of this school, will hold up their hands."

A forest of hands went up instantly, only a few of the most ill-conditioned boys murmured in the background.

Cyril went home to dinner, feeling as if he had been teaching school for a month; at night he felt as if he had been a schoolmaster all his life. The first week was the worst; but at the end of a fortnight the new master and the boys began clearly to understand each other, and to work together pretty harmoniously. Cyril kept up a strict rule, a steady discipline, which he seldom, if ever, relaxed; he exacted quick, unhesitating obedience and profound respect, and at the same time he took care never to issue useless or aggravating orders, and he treated the boys with the respect that was due to them! He talked with them on many subjects, and he endeavoured to make every lesson interesting: he insisted upon thorough study, and by-and-by created an

emulation in the school that very much astonished but delighted the committee. At the end of the quarter all things prospered; never had the school been fuller, never had it been in such perfect order, never had the scholarship been so excellent of its kind; yet the "Rules" were reduced to the lowest possible minimum. Of course there were bad boys, and idle boys, and incorrigibly low boys, who would not be won over; but on the whole the master was popular as none of his predecessors had ever been; and the committee congratulated themselves on the selection they had made.

In April, two of the MSS. which Cyril had “out and about" were accepted, and they brought him in five-and-twenty pounds-" nearly his whole year's rent!" He had also commenced a class for the elder boys, who, on the payment of an extra fee, came to him two evenings in the week for Latin, mathematics, and a higher kind of literature than the school routine permitted, and this brought him in another £20 a year; and still he had some time to give to literary effort.

He worked hard now, but never had he been in better health; and in May another article of his was accepted, with complimentary remarks, and an offer of a place on the "staff" for the remainder of the year, and probably for the next year also.

Yes! his prospects were brightening wonderfully, and he thanked God, and took courage; and hope once more revived and blossomed vigorously. And among the hopes which he fondly and secretly nourished, paramount was the hope of seeing Agnes Craven again, and proving to her that he was at last worthy of her friendship!-it could scarcely be more than friendship now, after all that had happened, and after all his blindness. Oh! if he had but loved Agnes from the first, how many miseries he would have escaped! and now!-was it not too late? Sad words, and full of a grief too deep for tears-" too late! too late!" They sounded in Cyril's ears continually,

and they smote upon his heart like a death-knell : for surely Agnes-whom once he might have wooed and won-was lost to him. Ah, yes! too late! too late! But, thank God, not too late for the joy of the world

to come.

384

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

UNANNOUNCED.

'PLEASE, sir, a lady wants to see you!"

Cyril was busily correcting the proofs of his new book-his Cathedral book, for which at last a publisher had been found; and he was sitting not in his Kennington lodging, but in a snug well-furnished library in a house in Devonshire Street, Portland Place, for two years and more had passed away since Cyril was appointed to a place on the staff of the Grosvenor Magazine, and he had made himself a name in the literary world, and publishers who had been shy in recognising the merits of our obscure writer, were eager now to secure to themselves the fruits of a successful author's labours. He had no occasion now to propitiate the publishers, for the publishers sought to propitiate him; but he adhered faithfully, and even chivalrously, to the well-known firm with which the Grosvenor was connected; for through that popular serial had the world first learned his powers, and acknowledged his claim to literary honours.

"A lady, did you say?" asked Cyril, looking anxiously at his housekeeper.

"Yes, sir; and I begged her to give me her card, or her name; but she wouldn't, though I told her it was as much as my place was worth to announce a perfect stranger; and she laughed out, and said, 'I'm no stranger; your master knows me well enough, only we have not met these four years, or near upon it.''

A wild hope sprang up in Cyril's heart ;—but no, it could not be! "Is the lady alone?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir; and when I asked again for her name

she said she wished to give you a surprise. She seems a very good-tempered, merry sort of lady, sir, but I am not sure that you would consider her quite a lady!"

It could not be Miss Craven: she might easily have discovered his whereabouts from his publishers; but then she would never have visited him alone, and undiscriminating as was good Mrs. Comfort, where housewifery stores were not concerned, it seemed impossible that she could ever describe Agnes as "a good-tempered, merry sort of a body," whose claims to thorough breeding were far from undeniable.

"What is she like?"

"Well, sir, she is what I call rosy-looking, and rather stout; a married person, I should say by her comeliness; her hair is red, and rolled in great rolls like sausages, or rather like pig-puddings, as the fashion is at present. Her nose turns up a good bit, and she has freckles-any quantity of them-and a pink bonnet, with lots of flowers about it, and a blue silk dress, and a mantle all over bugle-trimming, and a mauve parasol, and the biggest crinoline that ever came into Devonshire Street.'

"I really think it must be Miss Matthews," was Cyril's soliloquy : "and I believe she did marry somebody; and she would be certain to wear a pink bonnet and a mammoth crinoline."

Mrs. Comfort, knowing nothing of the Pimlico "family," could not give an opinion, she only asked if the lady should be shown up.

"Yes, but not here. I will not get into the habit of receiving promiscuous visitors in the study. Show the lady into the drawing-room."

So into Cyril's bachelor drawing-room Angey Marris, née Matthews, was shown; for it was indeed she, come to congratulate her once "bright particular star," and her still esteemed friend, on his wonderful popularity.

When Cyril entered the room, she advanced to meet him with almost a shout of joyful recognition; the mauve parasol flew off at a tangent; two chubby hands, closely imprisoned in delicate pearl-grey gloves,