ment. she sent a large Christmas card inscribed | cially in London, in comfort and refineto "My dear Walter and Florence, from Aunt Anne; "but the second year even this was omitted. It was not until Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert had been married nearly seven years that Aunt Anne again appeared before them. CHAPTER II. MANY things had happened to Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert in those seven years. Most important of all to themselves, at least was the birth of their two children, lovely children Mrs. Hibbert declared them to be, and in his heart her husband agreed with her. But the time came when Walter found to his dismay that even lovely children would sometimes cry, and that as they grew older they wanted room to run about with that delightful patter-pattering sound that is usually more musical to a mother's ear than to a father's, especially when he has to produce intelligible copy. So the Hibberts moved away from the little flat in which they had begun their married life, to an ugly little upright house sufficiently near Portland Road to enable Walter to get quickly to the office. There a nursery could be made at the top of the house, where the children were not only out of sight, but out of hearing. Walter did a great deal of work and was fairly well paid, but that did not mean a large income for a young couple with two children and three servants, trying to keep up an appearance before the world. He wrote for magazines and literary journals, occasionally he did a long pot-boiler for one of those reviews he called refuges for destitute intellects, and altogether was thrown much among men better off than himself, so that he did not like to look poor. Besides, he preferred to live with a certain amount of comfort even though it meant a certain amount of anxiety, to looking poverty-stricken or shabby for the sake of knowing precisely how he would stand at the end of the quarter, or being able at any moment to lay his hand on a ten-pound note. Still, it was a difficult task to pull through, and Walter felt that he ought to be making more money. He knew, too, though he did not tell his wife so, that the constant work and anxiety were telling on him; he wanted another but a far longer bracing-up than the one he had had seven years ago at Brighton. "A sea-voyage would be the thing," he thought, "only don't see how it could be managed, even if I could get away." The last year had been a fortunate one in some respects: an aunt of Mrs. Hibbert's had died, leaving them a hundred pounds and a furnished cottage near Witley in Surrey. It was a dear little cottage, they both protested ―red brick, of course, as all well-bred cottages are nowadays, standing in an acre and a half of its own fir wood, and having round it a garden with tan paths and those prim flowers that grow best in the vicinity of fir. It would be delightful to stay there in the summer holidays, they agreed, or to run down from Saturday to Monday, or by and by to send the children there for a spell with the governess when their parents were not able to get away from town. Walter had tried sending Florence and the children and going down every week himself, but he found "it didn't work." She was always longing to be with him, and he with her. It was only a broad sea and a few thousand miles that would make separation possible, and he did not think he could endure that very long; he was absurdly fond of his dear little wife. All this he thought over as he walked along the Strand one morning towards Fleet Street and his office. He was going to see his chief who had sent for him on a matter of business. His chief was Mr. Fisher, an excellent editor, though not quite enough of a partisan perhaps to have a strong following. The Centre was a model of fairness and the mainstay of that great section of the reading public that likes its news trustworthy and copious, but has no pronounced party leanings. Still, if it was a paper without political influence, it was one of great political use, for it invariably stated a question from all points of view with equal fairness, though So, though the Hibberts had only a it leant, if at all, from sheer editorial gensmall house, it was pretty and well ar- erosity, towards making the best of it for ranged. Their simple meals were daintily the weakest side. Thus a minority looked served, and everything about them had an to it almost as to an advocate, and the maair that implies content dashed with lux-jority knew that any strength that was ury. In fact they lived as people can live against them would be set forth in the now, even on a small income, and espe- Centre, and that if none was pleaded "You not only feel awkward yourself if you look poor, but cause other people to feel so," he said; "and that is making yourself a nuisance; and you have no business to do that if you can avoid it." there, the right and the triumph were together. Mr. Fisher liked Walter Hibbert; and though by tacit agreement their relations inside the office were purely formal, outside they were more intimate. Occasionally they took the form of a quiet dinner, or a few hours in the little house near Portland Road, where Florence contributed a good deal to her husband's popularity. P As he walked along the Strand that morning, Walter meditated on many ways of improving his condition and at the same time of not overworking himself. He found that it told on him considerably to be down late at the office three nights a week, doing his article, and then, with the excitement of work still upon him, to go home tired and hungry in the small hours of the morning. It was bad for Florence too, for she generally sat up for him, declaring that to taste his supper and to have a little chat with him did her good and made her heart light. Sometimes he thought he would take up a different line altogether (he knew his editor would aid and abet him in anything for his good) and try living in the country, and running up to town every day if necessary. But this would never do, it would only make him restive. His position was not yet strong enough to admit of taking things so easily. It was important to him to live among men of knowledge and influence, to be in the whirl and twirl of things, and London was essentially the bull's-eye, not only of wealth and commerce, but of most other things with which men of all degrees concern themselves. And when he got to this point he came to the conclusion that he was thinking too much about himself. After all he only wanted a month's rest or a couple of months' change of air; a friendly talk such as he might possibly get in the next quarter of an hour would probably bring about either and in a far better form than he himself could devise it. Mr. Fisher was a man of infinite resource, not merely in regard to his paper, but for himself and his friends too, when they consulted him about their personal affairs. It was one of his characteristics that he liked being consulted. Walter felt that the best thing would be to get away alone with Florence, to some place where the climate had no cause to be ashamed of itself; he wanted to be sated with sunshine. It was no good going alone, and no matter how pleasant a friend went with him, a time always came when he wanted to go by one route and the friend by another. "Now, your wife," he thought, "not only particularly longs to go by your route, but thinks you a genius for finding it out." He stopped for a moment to look at a bookshop; there was a box of second-hand books outside; he hesitated, but remembered that he had no time to stay. As he turned away some one touched him on the arm, and a voice said doubtfully: "Will you speak to me, Walter?" He looked up and instantly held out his hand with a smile. 'Why, it's Wimple," he said; "how are you, old fellow? Of course I'll speak to you. How are you?" The man who had stopped him was about eight-and-twenty, he was tall and thin, his legs were too long and very rickety. To look at he was not prepossessing; he had a pinky complexion, pale reddish hair, and small, round, dark eyes with light lashes and weak lids. On either side of his face there were some straggling whiskers; his lips were thin and his whole expression very grave. His voice was low but firm in its tone, as though he wished to convey that even in small matters it would be useless to contradict him. He wore rather shabby, dark clothes, his thin overcoat was unbuttoned and showed that the undercoat was faced with watered silk that had worn a little shiny; attached to his waistcoat was a watchguard made of brown hair ornamented here and there with bright gold clasps. He did not look strong or very flourishing. He was fairly gentleman-like, but only fairly so, and he did not look very agreeable. The apparent weakness of his legs seemed to prevent him from walking uprightly; he looked down a good deal at the toes of his boots, which were well polished. The oddest thing about him was that with all his unprepossessing appearance he had a certain air of sentiment; occasionally a sentimental tone stole into his voice, but he carefully repressed it. Walter remembered the moment he looked at him that the brown hair watchguard had been the gift of a pretty girl, the daughter of a tailor to whom he had made love as if in compensation for not paying her father's bill. He wondered how it had ended, whether the girl had broken her heart for him or found him out. But the next moment he hated himself for his ungenerous thoughts, and forcing them back spoke in as friendly a voice as he could manage. "It's ages since we came across each other," he said, "and I should not have seen you just now if you had not seen me. "I wasn't sure whether you would speak to me," Mr. Wimple said solemnly as they went towards Fleet Street together, and then almost hurriedly, as if to avoid thinking about unpleasant things, he asked, "How is your wife?" “All right, thank you. But how are you, and how are you getting on?" "I am not at all well, Walter Mr. Wimple coughed, as if to show that he was delicate "and my uncle has be haved shamefully to me.' 66 Why, what has he done?" Walter asked, wishing that he felt more cordial, for he had known Alfred Wimple longer almost than he had known any one. Old acquaintance was not to be lightly put aside. It constituted a claim in Walter's eyes as strong as did relationship, though it was only when the claim was made on him, and never when he might have pressed it for his own advantage, that he remembered this. "Done! why, he has turned me out of his office, just because he wanted to make room for the son of a rich client, for nothing else in the world." "That was rough," Walter answered, thinking almost against his will that Wimple had never been very accurate and that this account was possibly not a fair one. "What excuse did he make?" "He said my health was bad, that I was not strong enough to do the work, and had better take a few months' holiday. It is quite true about my health. I am very delicate, Walter." He turned, and looked at his friend with round, dark eyes that seemed to have no pupils to them, as though he wanted to see the effect of his statement. "I must take a few months' rest." "Then perhaps he was right after all. But can you manage the few months' rest?" Walter asked, hesitating, for he knew the question was expected from him. In old days he had had so much to do with Wimple's affairs that he did not like to ignore them altogether. "He makes me an allowance, of course, but it's not sufficient," Alfred Wimple answered reluctantly; "I wanted him to keep my post open for a few months, but he refused, though he's the only relation I have." an refuse, and it's a beggarly sum, after all.” To which Walter answered nothing. He had always felt angry with himself for not liking Alfred better; they were such veryold friends. They had been schoolfellows long ago, and afterwards, when Walter was at Cambridge and Alfred was articled clerk in London (he was by three years the younger of the two), there had been occasions when they had met and spent many pleasant hours together. To do Walter justice, it had always been Alfred who had sought him and not he who had sought Alfred, for in spite of the lat ter's much professed affection Walter never wholly trusted him; he hated himself for it, but the fact remained. "The worst of Alfred is, that he lies," he had said to himself long ago. He remembered his own remark to-day with a certain amount of reproach, but he knew that he had not been unjust; still, after all, he thought it was not so very great a crime; many people lied nowadays, sometimes without being aware of it. He was inclined to think that he had been rather hard on Alfred, who had been very constant to him. Besides, Wimple had been unlucky; he had been left a penniless lad to the care of an uncle, a rich city solicitor, who had not appreciated the charge; he had never had a soul who cared for him, and must have been very miserable and lonely at times. If he had had a mother or sister, or any one at all to look after him, he might have been different. Then too Walter remembered that once when he was very ill in the vacation it was Alfred who had turned up and nursed him with almost a woman's anxiety. A kindness like that made a link too strong for a few disagreeables to break. He could not help thinking that he was brute not to like his old friend better. "I am sorry things are so bad with you, old man; you must come and dine and talk them over." Mr. Wimple looked him earnestly in the face. "Never mind, you shall make it all right when luck is with you," Walter answered cheerfully, determined to forget all unpleasant bygones. "Why not come tonight? we shall be alone." 66 Mr. Wimple shook his head. "No, not to-night," he said; "I am not well, and I am going down.to the country till Wednesday; it will do me good." little smile hovered round his mouth as he added, "Some nice people in Hampshire have asked me to stay with them." "In Hampshire. Whereabouts in Hampshire?" There was a certain hesitation in Mr. Wimple's manner as he answered: "You don't know them, and I don't suppose you ever heard of the place, Walter; it is called Liphook." "Liphook, why of course I know it, it is on the Portsmouth line; we have a cottage, left us by my wife's aunt only last year, which is in the same direction, only nearer town. How long are you going to stay there? Till Wednesday. I will come and dine with you on Thursday, if you will have me." "All right, old man, 7.30. Perhaps you had better tell me where to write in case I have to put you off for business reasons." Mr. Wimple hesitated a minute, and then gave his London address, adding that he should be back on Wednesday night or Thursday morning at latest. They were standing by the newspaper office. "Do you think there might be anything I could do here?" he asked, nodding at the poster outside the door; "I might review legal books or something of that sort." "I expect Fisher has a dozen men ready for anything at a moment's notice," Walter answered," but I'll put in a word for if I get the chance; and with a you certain feeling of relief he shook his friend's hand and rushed up-stairs. The atmosphere seemed a little clearer when he was alone. "I'll do what I can for him," he thought, "but I can't stand much of his company. There is a want of fresh air about him that bothers me so. Perhaps he could do a legal book occasionally, he used to write rather well. I'll try what can be done." But his talk with Mr. Fisher was so important to himself and so interesting in many ways that he forgot all about Alfred until he was going out of the door; and then it was too late to speak about him. Suddenly a happy thought struck himMr. Fisher was to dine with Walter next week, he would ask him for Thursday. Then if he liked Alfred it might go all right. He remembered, too, that Alfred always dressed carefully and looked his best in the evening and laid himself out to be agreeable. "By the way, Fisher, I wonder if you would come on Thursday instead of on Wednesday. I expect an old friend and should like you to meet him; he is clever and rather off luck just now; of course you'll get your chat with my wife all right -in fact better if there are one or two people to engross me." "Very well, Thursday if you like; it will do equally well for me; I am free both evenings as far as I know." "Agreed then," and Walter went down the office stairs pleased at his own success. "That horrid Mr. Wimple will spoil our dinner; I never liked him," Florence exclaimed when she heard of the arrangement. "I know you didn't, and I don't like him either, which is mean of me, for he's a very old friend." "But if we neither of us like him, why should we inflict him on our lives? "We won't; we'll cut him as soon as he has five hundred a year; but it wouldn't be fair to do so just now when he's down on his luck; he and I have been friends too long for that." "But not very great friends?" "Perhaps not; but we won't throw him over in bad weather-try and be a little nice to him to please me, there's a dear Floggie," which instantly carried the day. "You had better ask Ethel Dunlop; Fisher is fond of music, and she will amuse him when he is tired of flirting with you," Walter suggested. "He'll never tire of that," she laughed, "but I'll invite her if you like. She can sing while you talk to Mr. Wimple and your editor discusses European politics with me." IT is the first of May. Behold our travellers bidding a last farewell to Damascus, with its shady gardens and cool, clear streams of water, its crowded bazaars (resplendent with rich silken stuffs of all the colors of the rainbow, and more especially stocked to overflowing with an endless variety of delectable sweetmeats), and lastly its pale-faced inhabitants, richly robed, but sad of countenance through this moon of Ramadan, fasting from dawn to sunset, and feasting by night. Behold the familiar cavalcade threading its way through those same bazaars streets which scarcely allow room for the riders to pass between the "shops on each side, so that the horses have to pick their way among the goods set out for sale. - narrow every stone, every lizard, every every. thing!" "He is a very uncanny personage!" exclaims Philippa "never speaking a word, but every now and then suddenly breaking into a hoarse, quiet, cackling laugh, for no reason whatever." "He is evidently not used to Europeans,' says the sister. "I suppose he is greatly amused at our outlandish ways." Quietly and swiftly the bright hours slip away. The chief event of the day is that, at different points on the line of march, the cavalcade encounters three huge droves of camels, the smallest of which contains sixty at least. They are in the charge of a few Bedouin folk who have brought them across the desert from Bagdad, intending to sell them in Damascus. Many of the camels are quite young, and most of them seem very wild — at least so thinks the trembling Sebaste when they crowd up to her, showing their teeth, and craning forward their ostrich-like necks as though debating whether to peck first herself or her beloved steed. The plain is crossed in a north-easterly direction, the travellers ascend the slopes of its bounding chain of hills, and, in the afternoon, descend the other side to the plain beyond, where they camp outside the village of Muadameyeh. Gathered round the supper-table in the sitting-tent after dark, the wanderers indulge in wild conjectures about the unknown regions on which they are entering. "What is the name of our next camp. ing-place, Cæsar?” asks the father, as the young dragoman appears with a dish of dried dates. "To-morrow, sir," is the answer, 66 we shall not gamb at no blace. We shall be in the wilderness." At last the city is left behind, and through its belt of shady gardens the procession winds on to the open plain beyond. The travellers present a more picturesque appearance than hitherto, for (rightly judging that no amount of muslin puggarees will avail against the power of desert suns) they have provided themselves with huge kefiyehs of gorgeous Damascus silks, which, bound round their hats, shade the eyes, and fall over the shoulders in protecting folds. The cavalcade is now head. ed by the stately figure of Sheikh Nasr ibn Abdullah, his dark eyes sparkling as he feels his steed bound beneath him, and scents afar off the air of the desert. Truly it is a goodly sight to see the dark-robed sheikh galloping across the plain, sometimes (with one hand on his horse's mane) Accordingly, in the course of next day's bending to the ground, and, without draw-march our travellers find themselves at ing rein, picking some flower which he last in the Syrian desert. It is a perfectly gravely presents to one or other of the level plain, bounded to north and south ladies. And whithersoever goes the son by two ranges of bare hills. At first the of Abdullah thither follows him Sheikh breadth of the plain from range to range 'Ali, his cousin and attendant. Pronounce is only a very few miles, but day by day, not his name, good reader, without due as the travellers advance eastward, the attention to the apostrophe. It symbol- plain grows broader and broader, an ocean izes an Arabic consonant which the sister of bluish green. Yes, really green, for explains to represent the sound heard be. (though at a later season the sandy ground tween two consecutive bleats of a camel.is parched and bare) at this time of year "So now you know how to pronounce his name," says she; "but for my part I shall call him the Man with the Eyes. His face is so muffled up that nothing but his eyes is visible, and such quick, penetrating, observant eyes I never beheld in my life. He notices every blade of grass, it is more or less covered with tufts of outlandish desert weeds with strange aromatic scents, and sometimes the plain is gay with wild flowers. Otherwise there is no vegetation whatever not so much as the ghost of a tree or shrub over all the level plain, which stretches away and |