ndicating that he was the last who would enter tonight), Harvey put
up the door-chain and turned the great key, then went quietly upstairs.
His rooms were on the first floor. A tenancy of five years, with long
absences, enabled him to regard this niche in a characterless suburb as
in some sort his home; a familiar smell of books and tobacco welcomed
him as he opened the door; remnants of a good fire kept the air warm,
and dispersed a pleasant glow. On shelves which almost concealed the
walls, stood a respectable collection of volumes, the lowest tier
consisting largely of what secondhand booksellers, when invited to
purchase, are wont to call 'tomb-stones' that is to say, old folios, of
no great market value, though good brains and infinite labour went to
the making of them. A great table, at one end of which was a tray with
glasses and a water-bottle, occupied the middle of the floor; nearer
the fireplace was a small writing-desk. For pictures little space could
be found; but over the mantelpiece hung a fine water-colour, the flood
of Tigris and the roofs of Bagdad burning in golden sunset. Harvey had
bought it at the gallery in Pall Mall not long ago; the work of a man
of whom he knew nothing; it represented the farthest point of his own
travels, and touched profoundly his vague historico-poetic
sensibilities.

Three letters lay on the desk. As soon as he had lit his lamp, and
exchanged his boots for slippers, he looked at the envelopes, and chose
one addressed in a woman's hand. The writer was Mrs. Bennet Frothingham.

'We have only just heard, from Mrs. Carnaby, that you are back in town.
_Could_ you spare us tomorrow evening? It would be so nice of you. The
quartet will give Beethoven's F minor, and Alma says it will be well
done--the conceit of the child! We hope to have some interesting people
What a shocking affair of poor Mrs. Carnaby's! I never knew anything
_quite_ so bad.--Our united kind regards.'

Harvey thrust out his lips, in an ambiguous expression, as he threw the
sheet aside. He mused before opening the next letter. This proved to be
of startling contents: a few lines scribbled informally, undated,
without signature. A glance at the postmark discovered 'Liverpool'.

'The children are at my last address,--you know it. I can do no more
for them. If the shabby Abbotts refuse--as I dare say they will--it
wouldn't hurt you to keep them from the workhouse. But it's a devilish
hard world, and they must ta