as the
drawing-room door opened, she was seen sitting, pale and delicate, in
her low chair by the fire, her babe on her lap, and the other three at
her feet, Johnnie presiding over his sisters, as they looked at a book
of prints.

She started up in alarm as Arthur entered, leaning on Mr. Fotheringham,
and at once seized by a paroxysm of severe cough. Percy tried to assume
a reassuring tone. 'Here, you see, I have brought him home with one of
his bad colds. He will speak for himself presently.'

In a second she had placed the infant on the sofa, signed to Johnnie
to watch him, and drawn the arm-chair to the fire. Arthur sank into
it, throwing his arm round her for support, and resting his weary head
against her, as if he had found his refuge. Percy relieved her from
the two little girls, unclasping their frightened grasp on her dress
so gently and firmly, that, stranger though he was, Anna did not cry
on being taken in his arms, nor Helen resist his leading her out of the
room, and desiring her to take her sister up-stairs and to call their
nurse.

Returning, he found that necessity had brought strength and presence
of mind to their mother. She did not even tremble, though Arthur's only
words were, 'We are undone. If I die, forgive me.' Indeed, she hardly
took in the sense of what he said; she only caressed, and tried to
relieve him, assisted by Percy, who did not leave them till he had seen
Arthur safely in charge of Mr. Harding.

He then walked away to his old lodgings in Piccadilly, where he was
recognized with ecstasy by the quondam ragged-school boy, and was gladly
welcomed by his landlady, who could not rejoice enough at the sight of
his good-humoured face.

He divided his time between friendly gossip on her family affairs as she
bustled in and out, in civility to the cat, and in railing at
himself for thinking twice of such a selfish, ne'er-do-well as Arthur
Martindale. The image of that pale young mother and her little ones
pursued him, and with it the thought of the complicated distresses
awaiting her; the knowledge of the debts that would almost beggar her,
coming in the midst of her husband's dangerous illness.

Percy muttered to himself lines of 'Who comes here--a Grenadier,' made a
face, stretched himself, and called on himself to look on reasonableness
and justice. Arthur deserved no favour, because he had encumbered
himself with a helpless family, and then cruelly disregarded them.

'What does a